


Royal Machinations

by comatosebadger, ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [89]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Movie Fusion, Multi, political scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comatosebadger/pseuds/comatosebadger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: Crown Prince Quentin has spent the last four years preparing to take over the throne from his grandfather. Now, with a year left before his coronation, there's a roadblock: He needs to get married.It turns out that finding your one true love while being royalty is a lot more complicated than Quentin ever thought it would be.AKA: The Princess Diaries 2 fusion you never knew you needed.
Relationships: Fen/Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Rupert Chatwin/Lance Morrison, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker
Series: Collaborations [89]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	Royal Machinations

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our Magicians Happily Ever After fic! We've been so excited to share this with you all :D
> 
> I, wilddragonflying, and ProofOfConcept wrote the story, and comatosebadger contributed the wonderful art!

"You look like you're having fun," Alice says as she sidles up beside Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, Crown Prince of Fillory, who looks nothing of the sort. The party around them is well underway, people dancing and laughing and nibbling delicately on canapes, but Quentin has already found a corner, for what little time he'll be allowed to linger here. He doesn't think Alice will give him away. "Congrats on the graduation. I'm sorry I couldn't make it."

"It was boring," Quentin says dismissively, though he gives Alice a genuine smile. "Not as exciting as your charity work. Trick many stuffy billionaires into giving you money?"

Alice smiles back. "Quite a few, actually," she says. "But I resent having to manipulate them into it. It's always for a good cause."

"I know it is," Quentin assures her. "And you're making a world of difference. Billionaires are just..." He glances around, makes sure there's no one in earshot as he lowers his voice. "Sometimes I wonder if they're even people, since they don't seem to care about anyone."

Alice smirks. "You need to be careful, saying things like that," she says. "Especially here."

Quentin affects an innocent expression. "Saying things like what?"

Alice laughs, and squeezes his arm. "Well, Q, I'd love to keep you company for the rest of the night, but I think there's someone over there who wants to dance with you."

Quentin visibly suppresses a groan. "Duke Wesselton," he mutters, then sighs. "I suppose I'm lucky I made it this long. Save me a dance?"

"Of course," Alice agrees. "Try not to step on him."

Quentin's smile is almost a grimace, but he replaces it with what he privately calls the Court Smile as he approaches the duke. As expected, Wesselton wants his annual dance, and Quentin has no choice but to let himself be led to the dance floor. The dance is, as always, _extraordinarily_ embarrassing to be seen next to, Quentin carefully using the half-dance that Grandfather had taught him specifically for letting Duke Wesselton get his yearly peacocking out of the way. This year, however, the duke is barely halfway through his routine when a voice interrupts.

"Mind if I cut in?"

Quentin startles, glancing over his shoulder to look at the man who'd spoken, and Wesselton comes to an equally startled stop. His expression is indignant - until he catches sight of who'd interrupted. Wesselton almost literally deflates, and Quentin has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as Wesselton moves away with a deferential murmur. "Thank you," Quentin says, taking the man's hand and getting his first good look at him. He's tall, easily at least a head taller than anyone else in the room, and his hair is curly, though carefully styled. His suit is impeccable, and the lines flatter the length of his legs and the narrow span of his waist. "I'm afraid I don't know your name, though, or your title."

"Just call me Eliot," the man says with a genteel smile, guiding Quentin easily into a more traditional waltz. "I don't need to ask your name: you're the guest of honour."

"Hazard of being a prince, I suppose," Quentin says with a laugh, glancing down briefly. "People tend to make things about you whether you want them to or not."

"This is your party, though," Eliot says, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "We're celebrating your graduation, aren't we?"

"It wasn't my idea," Quentin counters. "Seriously, I skipped my high school graduation. Couldn't get away with that this time, obviously, but I was tempted."

Eliot laughs, the sound warm and rumbly. "Are you not having a good time?" he teases.

"I'm having a perfectly pleasant time," Quentin protests, but he's grinning as they glide through another turn. "I'm just not usually very social, I didn't grow up in - Oh!" Quentin freezes when he feels something that _definitely_ isn't the dance floor under his foot, and a glance down shows that he's standing directly on Eliot's highly-polished shoe. "Crap, I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk and dance at the same time."

To his credit, no discomfort shows on Eliot's face. "You're vicious," he laughs. "It's a wonder you have so many eligible bachelors and bachelorettes lining up to dance with you if this is how you treat your partners."

Quentin flushes, hastily taking a step back. "Apologies," he murmurs, catching his grandfather's eye across the ballroom and shaking his head slightly at the clear concern on the king's expression. "Usually chatting is... kept to a minimum while I dance."

"So this is my fault," Eliot says. He looks positively gleeful. "All right. Maybe I should pass you back into Wessleton's capable hands."

"No, it's not _your_ fault, I know better," Quentin protests.

Eliot shakes his head, and starts to say something else when a polite cough interrupts him.

"Excuse me," Alice says. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Quentin promised me a dance?"

Quentin honestly couldn't care less that his expression probably betrays exactly how relieved he is to see Alice. "I did," he agrees, nodding and stepping back, away from Eliot and giving him a slight smile. "And I'm afraid I can't spend too much time with one person; too many people to dance with."

"Another time, then," Eliot says, giving them both a little bow. "It was lovely to meet you, Your Highness. M'lady."

And then he's gone, and Quentin tries to remember how to lead when Alice takes his place. "Who was that?" she asks.

"He said to just call him Eliot," Quentin admits. "I didn't push."

"Well, he's cute," Alice says. "And he saved you from that idiot peacock."

Quentin laughs despite himself. "Those are both very good points," he concedes, "but I don't want to spend all night gossiping about cute boys. Tell me more about what you've been up to."

* * *

The party lasts well into the night, and yet daybreak finds Quentin meeting his grandfather in the dining room for breakfast. His face is still slightly damp from the cold water he’d had to splash on it to wake himself up after getting dressed, and he doesn’t miss the knowing look that King Rupert gives him. “It was a late night,” he mumbles, flushing, as he settles into his seat, giving Benedict a grateful smile as he places the plate with Quentin’s breakfast on it in front of him. “But I’m awake, and I made it to breakfast on time. What’s the plan for today?”

The king heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Parliament is in session at nine," he says. "After that, not much, actually. Did you have any plans today?"

Quentin shakes his head. "No," he says, taking a bite of his eggs. He chews and swallows before asking, "Can I come with you? Just to observe."

King Rupert raises his eyebrows. "You want to come to Parliament?"

"Well, yeah," Quentin says, glancing down at his food before he meets his grandfather's gaze again. "I mean, I'm here to train to be king, right? So I should start seeing how everything really works."

Rupert just looks at Quentin for the longest moment - but then he nods. "All right," he says. "You can't wear that, though."

Quentin freezes, and then breaks out into a grin. "Of course," he agrees. "I'll get changed right after breakfast."

* * *

"It's lovely to see you all this fine morning," King Rupert says, with a friendly smile for the Members of Parliament gathered around the large room. "I hope you don't mind, but Prince Quentin has asked to sit in on today's proceedings, in a strictly observational capacity."

The majority of faces are approving, murmurs accompanying their nods. There are only a few who look less-than-pleased with this development, and they're all in Duke Waugh's box. Quentin doesn't spare them any extra attention, however; they're only three people, compared to the other dozen who seem happy that he's here. He gives the Members of Parliament a slow, regal nod - just as King Rupert had taught him - and settles into the chair behind his grandfather's as the Prime Minister calls them into session. Quentin listens intently as they go over several laws, discussing and voting on potential amendments to some of the oldest, to keep them modern, and the day seems to be going well.

Then, Duke Waugh finally speaks. "I know I speak for all of Parliament when I say that Your Majesty deserves his retirement as much as anyone else, if not more. However, there are some... concerns that some members have voiced, which we would bring to Your Majesty's attention."

"Then by all means," King Rupert says, "do so. What is it that concerns you?"

"Namely, that Prince Quentin may be Fillorian by blood, but he is not Fillorian in truth," Duke Waugh says, his gaze flicking to Quentin's before returning to the king's. "He did not grow up here, he has not spent more than a month at a time here until now, and yet you expect him to take over the throne in a year's time."

King Rupert's jaw tenses, but barely. "I can see that you've given this a great deal of thought, Duke Waugh," he says. "Of course, these concerns of yours are perfectly reasonable - or they would be, were I to be suggesting Prince Quentin take over the throne next week. Even as things stand, he is no stranger to our people; they like him very much, and he has spent as much time among them as he has been able during the course of his studies. We intend to spend the next year fully preparing him and our country for the crown to change hands."

"And do these preparations include a wedding?" There's a sort of viciously-satisfied gleam in Duke Waugh's eyes. "I'm sure all of us here are aware of the law which states that no Fillorian heir may take the throne while unwed."

Hushed murmuring breaks out all around the room, and King Rupert closes his eyes for a moment. "That law," he says, "is archaic and unfair. There are many such laws in our constitution, dating back hundreds of years, which are no longer in use because, viewed through the lens of these modern times, they are ridiculous." He glances around the room. "Surely we can agree that the law to which Duke Waugh refers should be counted among that number?"

There is more murmuring, and Quentin has to grip the edge of his seat to keep from grinding his jaw as he waits for someone to speak. Eventually, Lord Palimore, a wizened old man whose mind is still sharp, does so. "You know the reason why that law was passed, Your Majesty," he says. "Fillory has always been a small country, with many foes eager to swallow her up in their banner. We have made allowances for some ancient laws, as you said. But this is one which keeps Fillory safe in a real, tangible way. A lone monarch taking the throne is easily overwhelmed, as our ancestors saw happen to their neighbors who eventually became Loria. And so, there is never a lone monarch taking the throne."

"If Prince Quentin does not have a betrothed, there is another heir who does," Duke Waugh says. "The Waughs are, by law, the next family in line for the throne, should the Chatwins' reign end. My son, Darren, is married, and has lived in Fillory all of his life, studying at our finest institutions and under myself to take care of our people. He would be honored and willing to extend that care to the rest of Fillory."

The murmuring gets louder, and King Rupert's eyes flash with rage. "That won't be necessary, Duke Waugh," he says. "Prince Quentin may not have been raised in Fillory, but he has Fillorian blood, _royal_ blood. He is the only heir."

"The only _Chatwin_ heir," the Duke corrects, uncowed. "And he is unmarried, with no plans to become married that Parliament has heard of."

King Rupert clenches his teeth. "He won't be ascending the throne for another year," he says. "Who is to say he won't take a spouse in that time?"

"Then you intend to find him a spouse?" Duke Waugh asks - _challenges,_ almost, except for how carefully polite his tone is. "Even now, arranged marriages aren't uncommon - I assume you already have a list of candidates in mind?"

King Rupert gives him a tight smile. "You'd do well to remember that it is rarely wise to assume anything, Duke Waugh."

The Duke opens his mouth to say something else, but Lord Palimore beats him to it. "I propose that we re-examine the issue in eight months' time," he says. "That should allow ample opportunity for Prince Quentin to find a spouse. And if he is not married nor engaged to be married before his coronation date, then we will revisit the question of establishing Darren Waugh on the throne."

"Eight months," King Rupert agrees. He sighs, deeply. "Shall we move on?"

* * *

Quentin waits until he and his grandfather are alone after the session finally ends before he lets himself comment on what happened. "I have to be _married?_ "

Now that they're away from prying eyes, Rupert Chatwin allows himself to show the sheer extent of his frustration: he grinds his teeth. "I didn't think it would be an issue," he says shortly. "I'm sorry."

"Did they insist you get married?" Quentin asks, running a hand through his hair as he paces, unable to sit still. "That's just - it _is_ archaic, no one's been after Fillory for centuries now, there's no real reason why a lone monarch can't take the throne!"

"I know that," Rupert says. "But unfortunately no Fillorian monarch has ever gotten around it, myself included." He hesitates, clearly torn, but then goes on. "It's part of the reason why your mother left."

Quentin's gaze snaps to his grandfather's, eyes wide. "Oh," he says quietly. "That - Yeah, that makes sense. She never liked being told what to do."

Rupert gives him a wry smile. "I remember," he says. "I'm sorry, Quentin. Your mother grew up in a different time, and I definitely did, but I really hoped it wouldn't be an issue by now. Clearly I was wrong."

Quentin sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. " _Is_ there a list of candidates?"

"Not literally," Rupert says. "But there are a certain number of people it would be deemed... acceptable for you to marry."

Quentin nods. "Okay. Well, we've got... eight months, so. Can we look at that list tomorrow?"

Rupert's expression softens. "You don't have to do this, Quentin," he says. "You do have a choice."

"I know," Quentin assures him, a small smile on his face. "Which is why I want to wait 'til tomorrow to start thinking about it; my head is... still spinning, honestly. I can't make a decision right now, and I don't want to until I have more information."

Rupert nods. "All right," he says. "I'll get Tick onto it today."

Quentin's smile turns grateful, and then he changes the subject. "So. What else can we do today?"

Rupert smiles at him. "Why don't I show you?" he suggests.

They go to a part of the palace that Quentin has never seen before, but Rupert won't tell him what they're going for. He doesn't really say much of anything, just nods to the various members of staff they meet on their way and laughs when their eyes go round with knowing, so clearly Quentin is the only one who has been kept out of this particular loop. He's not even that mad, though, mainly just curious, especially when they finally reach a stop before a pair of particularly grand-looking doors.

"With you living in the palace full-time now," Rupert says, "I thought it high time that we upgrade your bedroom. I thought perhaps the East Wing would be sufficient?"

Quentin blinks. "Please don't tell me you gave me the entire East Wing," he laughs.

Rupert chuckles, and holds out a key. "Why don't you find out?"

Quentin takes the key, eyes still wide, and then turns to the door that Rupert indicates. He slides the key into the lock, turns it, and then pushes the door open.

" _Whoa,_ " he breathes, blinking. "This is - " He spins in place, swears he almost hears his jaw dragging on the floor. "There are so many books."

"Your own personal library," Rupert agrees, pleased. "For starters. The rest of your rooms are through there."

Quentin is no less pleased with the rest of his rooms, and lets his grandfather know. He's especially impressed with the remote to control his closet, and maybe spends more than a little time playing with the buttons. "I can't imagine ever wearing all of these clothes," he says, clearly overwhelmed. "My closet in New York was like. Half the size of that _shower._ "

"There's more," Rupert says, pointing. "Look in there."

Quentin glances at Rupert, to the door, and then back; when his grandfather only nods with an encouraging smile, Quentin moves towards the door he'd indicated, the only one Quentin has yet to open. He presses the accompanying button, and then has to suppress a disappointed noise. "Oh, even more clothes," he says, turning to give Rupert a slightly-strained smile. "They're... great, really, but I don't - "

"Surprise!"

Quentin yelps, whirling, and then he grins when he catches sight of who just popped out of his closet. "Jules!"

Julia squeals and pulls Quentin into a tight hug. "Hey, Q. I missed you!"

Quentin's hug is just as tight, and if he and Julia both jump up and down a little as they hug, well. No one but Rupert's around to see them. "When did you get in? How long have you been hiding in there?" His gaze cuts to Rupert, eyes narrowing. "Why did you leave that closet for last?"

Rupert just chuckles and holds up his hands. "I'm not getting involved," he says.

"I haven't been here for long," Julia assures him. "My flight got in about an hour ago."

"So you came right here and got stuffed into a closet," Quentin surmises with a laugh, stepping back and keeping an arm around Julia's waist. "Well, come on, let's go see the rest of the castle. I can't wait to show you the _real_ library."

* * *

As expected, Julia is in near-raptures of joy over the royal Fillorian library, and after getting a full tour of the rest of the castle and grounds, she and Quentin spend the rest of the evening there. She spends the night with Quentin, the two of them sharing a bed and curled up together in a way they've both missed from their high school days, before Quentin's long-lost grandfather found him in the summer between high school and college and told him he was royalty. It's nice, having her back; they haven't spent nearly enough time together the past few years.

The next morning, Benedict brings in breakfast for the two of them, as well as a tablet for Quentin. Julia's clearly curious about the tablet, but Quentin doesn’t explain what it's for until after breakfast. He tells her the whole story, everything that happened at the Parliament session the day before, and ends with, "So we got some time, but... I don't know. I mean, I've only just really gotten used to the idea of being a prince, and was starting to get comfortable with the thought of being a king, but. I just don't know. What if the people don't like me? What if they'd rather have Duke Waugh's son as king?"

"Duke Fuckface sounds like a self-important, scheming jackass," Julia fumes. "His son is probably exactly the same. The people love you, Quentin, you know this."

Quentin snorts, smiling, at Julia's vehemence. "I didn't grow up here, they don't know me the way they know the duke’s son," he points out before sighing. "And anyway, it's a moot point if I'm not married or engaged to be married in eight months."

"Which is also just-- fucking _bullshit_ ," Julia snaps. "You can't force someone into a marriage just so that they can access their birthright!"

Quentin can see where this is going. "I mean, it's the way things have always been done - not that I agree with it! - and it started for a good reason. I'd have to marry eventually, anyway."

"This isn't the middle ages!" Julia cries. "Fillory isn't at war; there isn't an army currently trying to break down the gates! It's your fucking throne and you shouldn't have to share it with anyone!"

"I'm not arguing with you," Quentin says, "but I can't change the law, and right now, no one in Parliament is going to agree with Granddad to change it."

Julia deflates somewhat, and gives him a strange look. "So you're going to do it?"

Quentin licks his lips, sighs, and shrugs. "I think so. I mean, I'm not about to let some jerk steal the throne just because of something like this, and Granddad was friends with his wife. That's the way most arranged marriages end up, and... I've got eight months to find someone I can be friends with."

Julia looks pained. "I'll do it," she says.

Quentin smiles. "I appreciate that," he says honestly. "But I'm not dragging you anymore into this than I have to, and I... don't think it would go over well with Parliament, least of all Duke Fuckface." He gestures to the tablet that he'd been given. "That has a list of nobles who are open to an arranged marriage; I was going to go over it this morning. Want to help me narrow it down?"

Julia's eyes widen. "We're just going to... pick your future wife from a list of nobles?"

Quentin winces. "Wife or husband. But we're more... gonna pick some people to meet with and talk to about this?"

Julia flushes. "Right," she says. "Okay. Let's see what we've got to work with."

They make it halfway through the list before Rupert, his main diplomatic advisor Lance Morrison, and the head of security, Mayakovsky, find them. Rupert's expression is almost soft when he gives Quentin a questioning look that Quentin answers with a nod, his jaw set. "Well, I see you two are hard at work," Rupert says, settling into a chair near them, Lance on his right. "What do you think so far?"

"They all seem... nice," Quentin says diplomatically.

Rupert's lips twitch, and he looks to Julia. "And your opinion, Ms Wicker?"

Julia sticks her nose in the air. "None of them are good enough for him."

Mayakovsky snorts from his post by the door, and even Lance's lips twitch. "A loyal response," Rupert says, amusement clear in his tone. "But unfortunately, if Quentin has decided to go through with this, at least one of them must be chosen to meet with."

"Who are you considering thus far?" Lance asks, gesturing towards the tablet in Quentin's hands.

"Oh, um, Lord Hoberman - "

"A good man, but rather more fond of his parties than of his duties," Lance interjects.

"But he _does_ throw good parties," Rupert counters. "We'll keep him in reserve."

Quentin grins despite himself. "Sir Todd - "

"In a committed relationship," Lance says, giving Quentin an apologetic look.

"But a divine dancer and always willing to lend an ear; make sure he's still on the master guest list, Lance." Rupert gives Lance a winning smile when the other man rolls his eyes before turning back to Quentin, his expression serious. "Quentin, if I may offer you some advice? It may be... _easier,_ in the long run, if you were to choose a woman as your partner."

Julia frowns. "He's bisexual," she says. "If he wants to take a husband, why not? Is there another law that says the monarch has to be heterosexual?"

"No," Lance cuts in before Rupert can say anything, "but it makes matters of inheritance much simpler. The last time a monarch took the throne with a lover of the same sex, the inheritance matter was dragged out for _years,_ determining who should father the child, what the father was owed, what his status in the line of succession was, et cetera. While we would certainly have an easier time with that precedent now set, it is worth thinking about, considering the other difficulties that Prince Quentin is facing in his ascension to the throne."

Julia glances at Quentin, but when he doesn't offer any protests, she deflates a little. "Well, we did like a few of the girls," she allows.

"Oh?" Rupert asks, encouragingly.

"Lady Fen was one of our top choices," Quentin says, nudging the tablet towards Lance, the profile on the screen. "She's Fillorian, her family has a history of working closely with the Chatwins, and she's well-liked by the people in her father's lands."

Lance studies Quentin rather than the tablet. "And you feel she would make a good ruler?"

Quentin swallows, but nods. "She's never shown any indication of being after power for its own sake. And isn't that what the first month or so is for, getting acquainted?"

"A reasonable choice," Mayakovsky offers. "At least, she is the only person you have mentioned who is not a total dick."

Someone stifles a snort, but it's Rupert who speaks. "I have heard good things about Lady Fen," he says, nodding. "Lance, would you get in touch with her family?"

Lance smiles, inclining his head. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Julia glances at Quentin. "How quickly are we expecting this to go down?" she asks.

"We'll arrange a few outings with Lady Fen, if she's also amenable to meeting with Quentin," Rupert explains. "A chance for both of you to get to know each other a little before deciding whether to move forward with arranging a marriage."

Julia looks at Quentin, who takes a deep breath, and nods. "Okay. Let's - Let's do that."

* * *

Lance starts the process of communicating with Fen's parents and Fen herself, and a few days later, they have a date for the first meeting. That, however, is not why the palace staff are currently rushing about; Quentin has just been informed that his grandfather has invited some guests to stay at the palace for the next several months. It's not until he and Rupert are standing in the foyer, waiting for their guests' arrival, that Quentin finally gets a chance to ask his grandfather what he's thinking. "You invited the duke and his son to stay here?" he hisses, shifting closer to Rupert so that the conversation can stay relatively private. " _Why?_ "

"Keep your enemies close, Quentin," King Rupert says wisely. "Duke Waugh and his youngest son will be spending time at the palace, where they can assure themselves that we are taking all necessary steps to follow the law, while his eldest son will be left at home to run their estate."

"So you're letting them stay here so they can be _nosey?_ "

"I am letting them stay here," King Rupert says, "so that Darren Waugh can prove his own incompetence in his father's absence."

Quentin opens his mouth, closes it, and blinks. "Oh. Hm." His lips twitch. "That's... devious."

Rupert's eyes widen innocently. "I don't know what you mean," he says.

Quentin snorts. "Of course you don't." An abrupt rise in activity on the other side of the door makes him straighten, hands clasped behind his back. "They're here."

King Rupert turns to look, a placid smile already painted onto his face, just as a member of the Royal Guard speaks.

"Duke Waugh and his son, Lord Eliot!"

Quentin freezes, gaze snapping to the doors as they open, and he has to fight back the urge to grit his teeth as their guests enter the palace. Duke Waugh looks at everything with a vague sneer, and his son... Well, it would be hard for Quentin _not_ to recognize him. "Thank you for inviting us to stay here, Your Majesty," Duke Waugh says as he draws even with the king, Eliot drawing even with Quentin.

"It's an honour," Eliot adds, with a coy smile. "And Prince Quentin. It's lovely to see you again."

Quentin doesn’t react for a moment, and then he pastes on his own most charming smile, stepping forward with his hand extended. " _Lord_ Eliot," he says - and as soon as Eliot takes his hand, Quentin stomps _viciously_ on his foot.

"Quentin!" Rupert hisses, as Eliot cries out and lists dangerously to one side.

He regains his composure quickly enough, however, his grip tightening on Quentin's hand as he summons a strained smile. "It's quite all right, Your Majesty," he manages. "It's just a... private joke, from Prince Quentin's graduation party."

Quentin's own smile is sharp, just this side of a snarl. "Yeah, just a private _joke,_ " he says, grip tightening around Eliot's hand before he releases it, steps back. "My apologies, sirs, but I'm afraid I'm feeling... rather unwell, and Lord Eliot may want some ice for his foot. Welcome to Castle Whitespire." He sketches a small, quick bow, and then beats a hasty retreat, his head held high.

* * *

"Would you care to explain to me," King Rupert says, his voice even and measured, as he lets himself into Quentin's rooms, "why I just had to spend two hours making nice with Duke Waugh and his son alone?"

Quentin has the grace to look sheepish. "Because I let my temper get the better of me?"

"But _why?_ " Rupert asks. He approaches Quentin slowly. "I've never seen you act like that."

Quentin sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "We danced. At the graduation-slash-homecoming party. He saved me from most of Duke Wesselton's dance, and we talked. I thought he was nice, even after I accidentally stepped on his foot. He never told me he was a lord, just said to call him Eliot. And when I saw him standing there..."

"You got annoyed, because you realised that he's out to steal your crown," Rupert surmises. "Oh, Quentin. You can't let them do this to you."

Quentin blows out a breath. "I was annoyed because I didn't know he was nobility. And I thought we... maybe had a connection? But then I saw him today and just... I don't know, it kind of crashed together? It won't happen again, I'll be on my best behavior around them."

"You need to be," Rupert says seriously. "I didn't invite them here to give them more reasons you shouldn't rule to present to Parliament."

Quentin winces, gaze dropping to his knees. "I know. I'm sorry, Granddad."

Rupert shakes his head, his expression softening. "Just stay away from Lord Eliot for now. You'll be busy enough to make it excusable. You're meeting Lady Fen in a few days."

Quentin looks up, eyes wide. "Really? She agreed to meet with me?"

Rupert chuckles. "Of course she did. You're the Crown Prince of Fillory."

Quentin shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Four years of that, and it's _still_ so weird to hear. But I guess it has some perks. Where are we meeting her?"

"She's coming to us," Rupert says. "I thought it might be nice to have your first meeting away from the prying eyes of the press."

Quentin chuckles. "Thank you. They're relentless, but having the first meeting in relative privacy will be nice. I'm... actually looking forward to meeting her."

Rupert smiles. "Good," he says. "If you stomp on her foot, there'll be hell to pay."

Quentin snorts. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not a chance," Rupert says, but he's grinning now. "Spend some time with Julia. I'll do my best to keep the Waughs away from you, and I'll send Lance when we know more about your meeting with Lady Fen."

* * *

Quentin may have promised to stay away from the Waughs as much as possible, but Julia made no such promise. When Quentin returns to his rooms from his latest meeting with Lance and his grandfather to review the protocol for Lady Fen’s arrival the next day, Julia is practically vibrating in her seat, waiting for him. The sight brings Quentin up short, and he squints suspiciously at her. “What have you been up to?”

"Whatever do you mean?" Julia asks, her eyes wide and innocent. "Your Royal Highness, I really hope you're not accusing me of snooping around the servants' quarters so that I can bring you _all the tea_ on Duke Fuckface and Son." She frowns. "Can I call them servants?"

"That's their job," Quentin says with a shrug. "Just don't be a dick to them, say please and thank you, you know the drill with retail workers, this is the same. What do you mean, 'tea'? What have you heard?"

"Nothing of interest about the father," Julia says, clearly disappointed. "But the son is apparently a little bit of a slut, and a whole lot of an asshole."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Apparently he'll sleep with any guy with a pulse," Julia says, "and some girls, too. Which, of course there's nothing wrong with that, but apparently it's caused quite a number of scandals at home. He sounds like your typical entitled rich bitch, if I'm honest. His father's people are constantly running after him, trying to clean up his messes."

"Huh." Quentin considers that for a moment, dropping onto the couch next to Julia. "So why the hell is he _here_? Duke Waugh can't expect him to behave any better here than at home."

Julia shrugs. "I don't know," she says. "Maybe he just wants to keep a better eye on him here."

Quentin frowns. "Maybe," he says slowly, but it's clear that he's not entirely convinced by that argument. "Well, Granddad said he invited them here to let them see we're complying with Parliament's wishes - who says we can't watch them just as closely as they're watching us?"

Julia raises her eyebrows. "What do you have in mind?"

Quentin shrugs. "Well, I don't trust them. Neither does Granddad, or he wouldn't have invited them here. So, what if we just... keep an eye on them, wait for them to fuck up or step out of line?"

Julia shrugs. "I'm in," she says. "But just to be clear - do we not like Eliot?"

Quentin frowns. "He's starting with a handicap," he decides. "For not telling me he's nobility, and because I don't trust anyone with the last name Waugh right now. But if he's not a total dick, then..." He shrugs again. "Maybe we can like him later."

Julia smiles at that. "I thought so."

* * *

The day Quentin and Lady Fen are set to meet dawns bright and sunny, and far too early. Quentin may or may not have been up until the small hours with Julia, alternating between gossiping about the Waughs and worrying about the next day. He's not sure what time they finally passed out, but they did so together, curled up in his bed. Luckily, the servants don't even bat an eyelash when they come in to wake him early that morning.

Encouraged along by some kind words from his grandfather and some stern words from Julia, Quentin is showered and dressed in time for Lady Fen's arrival at noon. They're meeting in one of the castle's many parlours, one that opens out onto a neat little terrace and the grounds beyond, perfect for a spring day like this one. Also perfect for beating a hasty retreat if things go sideways.

Quentin and King Rupert, who is acting as chaperone, only have to wait a few minutes before the doors open and a pretty young woman is shown into the room, escorted by Lance. He bows briefly to the king and then to Quentin before he gestures toward the woman. She's lovely, with long hair and a kind, inquisitive smile.

"Your Majesty," Lance is saying, "Your Highness - Lady Fen."

Rupert is the first to approach Fen, reaching to take the hand she extends and bring it to his lips. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Fen," he says with a charming smile. "I trust your journey here was comfortable?"

"Perfectly pleasant, Your Majesty," Lady Fen says sweetly, dipping into a brief curtsy. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Of course, of course," Rupert says with a smile, stepping to the side and gesturing for Quentin to step forward. "Allow me to introduce my grandson, Quentin."

Quentin takes Lady Fen's hand, bowing over it and pressing a kiss to the back of it. "It's an honor to meet you," he says honestly, giving her his most charming smile - even if it _is_ the one that Julia says makes him look like a doofus.

"Your Highness," Lady Fen says, and curtsies again. She gives him a sweet smile, a little indulgent and a little amused, but not unkind. "I've heard so much about you, but I'm so looking forward to getting to know you."

"And I, you," Quentin promises, releasing her hand. "Would you care to join me for lunch?"

"I'd love to," Fen says, still smiling.

"Why don't you take it out on the terrace?" Lance suggests helpfully. "It's warm enough."

"I think that sounds like a great idea," Quentin says, giving Lance a grateful smile before turning back to Fen and offering his arm. "Shall we?"

Fen slips her hand into the crook of Quentin's arm. "Let's."

Quentin leads Fen to her seat, pulling out her chair for her before he takes a seat across the small table. It's the work of a moment for the servants to bring the food out, and Quentin thanks them before turning his attention to Fen. "So, you grew up in Fillory, Lady Fen?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Fen says. "My father's family owns a lot of farmland, so I grew up surrounded by the countryside. It's so beautiful back home - but nowhere near as exciting as the big city, I'm sure."

"Call me Quentin, please. The city was... chaotic, but beautiful," Quentin concedes. "But I must say I prefer Fillory to New York City."

"Really?" Fen asks, her eyes alight with interest. "Why?"

Quentin takes a moment to marshal his thoughts. "I love the atmosphere," he starts with. "It's so very different from what I grew up with, but it's nice. Even in the city, where it's easy to feel like you're one of the crowd, I feel like I belong here, and like people see me, not _just_ their prince. I didn't even get that in New York as an average Joe with most people, just my best friend, Julia."

"I'm glad," Fen says, "that you feel at home here. We're a very welcoming people, mostly, but outsiders make us wary."

"Considering Fillory's past, I can't blame you," Quentin assures her. "Have you visited any other countries? Is there anywhere you'd like to visit?"

"I'd love to go to America," Fen admits. "I've seen a little of Europe, but not much."

"I haven't seen much of Europe except what I've flown over," Quentin confides. "Do you have any questions about America? I can try to answer them."

Fen, it turns out, has _many_ questions about America, and Quentin does his best to answer each of them as fully as he can while they eat. Honestly, if not for Mayakovsky standing by the entrance to the patio, and another guard on the opposite side, Quentin could almost pretend that this is a normal date.

Eventually, they finish their food, and when Quentin suggests a walk around the gardens, Fen graciously accepts. Quentin offers her his arm again, and then they set off, doing their best to ignore the guards trailing them. "So, have you enjoyed yourself today, Lady Fen?" Quentin asks as they turn past the statue of King Frederic the Compassionate, kneeling amongst a small crowd of woodland creatures with a bluebird atop his crown.

"I really have," Fen says, and her gentle hand squeezes Quentin's arm. "Have you?"

"I have," Quentin says, offering Fen a small smile. "You are... very engaging company."

Fen laughs, a little self-consciousness creeping into her expression. "Thank you, I think," she teases. "Perhaps we should... do this again?"

Quentin's smile grows. "I would love to," he says.

* * *

Quentin has dinner with Julia and his grandfather last night, and all they can talk about is how well lunch with Lady Fen went. It's still early days, but they both seem confident that Lady Fen will soon be his wife, and Quentin even kind of hopes they're right. She seems nice enough, and he really doesn't want to have to go through all of this again.

After dinner, Julia heads to the main library to do some reading while Quentin bows out and heads to bed. He's on his way to his suite when he hears footsteps approaching the hallway he's in, and then there he is, in all his glory. Eliot Waugh.

"Quentin," he says, an easy smile finding his lips. " _Prince_ Quentin. Fancy seeing you here."

" _Lord_ Eliot," Quentin says, putting his most civil smile on. "A pleasure to see you again. How is your foot?"

"I'm assured that there's no permanent damage," Eliot says. "Sorry to disappoint."

Quentin hums a noncommittal noise. "How have you been finding your stay?"

"Oh, it's been lovely," Eliot says. "Castle Whitespire is perhaps the finest piece of architecture in our country. It's beautiful. And of course everyone here is so nice." He smiles. "It's just a shame I haven't seen you around more. I get the feeling you're avoiding me."

"My apologies, but I've been busy," Quentin says diplomatically. "We've had quite a bit of... upheaval in the castle over the past couple of weeks, I'm sure you understand."

"Upheaval caused by my father, if I'm correct?"

"That is part of it," Quentin concedes, "but there's been many changes to accommodate the plans my grandfather and I have for the coming year."

"How exciting," Eliot says, something like mockery in his eyes. "I do hope you're not struggling, in the wake of my father's revelation. Finding a partner can be a challenge at the best of times - but finding a spouse, while on a deadline and trying to prepare to take over a kingdom. It can't be easy."

"Is any part of noble life easy?" Quentin counters. "This has been no more hectic than completing college while learning to be a prince."

"If you say so," Eliot says easily. "Of course, I was born to this life, so I couldn't possibly comment. I just hope you can handle the pressure."

"I've been managing so far," Quentin says. "It helps to have support that I can rely on."

"Of course," Eliot says, oh so polite. "And how was your meeting with Lady Fen this afternoon?"

"It went well. Lady Fen is an exceptional woman, and I look forward to spending more time with her."

"I'm sure," Eliot says with a tight smile. "Well, I wish you every happiness, Your Highness."

”And I, you, my lord.”

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Quentin and Fen spend quite a bit of time together, both in the castle and the surrounding grounds and in the city of Whitespire itself. Quentin even makes the trip out to Fen’s family’s lands - despite Mayakovsky’s grumblings about security concerns - once or twice, and it’s… illuminating, seeing Fen where she grew up. The more time Quentin spends with her, the more he likes her. By the time Lance starts hinting strongly about proposing and Duke Waugh begins to all but strut around the castle triumphantly, Quentin knows they can be friends, if nothing else - they’re already well on their way to it.

So, he speaks to his grandfather and Lance, receives the ring that had once been his grandmother’s, and proposes. It’s simple, but Quentin’s learned that that is how Fen prefers things; she doesn’t like overly-complicated affairs, and Quentin appreciates her no-nonsense attitude towards life. They’re taking another walk around the gardens and have just paused for a break under a willow tree when Quentin proposes. It’s as simple as pulling out the ring and asking Fen if she would do him the honor of becoming his wife and ruling Fillory with him, and she accepts.

Miraculously, there’s only a few photographers on the very edges of the garden, and with the branches of the willow tree shielding them partway, they have a brief opportunity to brace themselves before stepping out from under the tree and an audible buzz goes up on the other side of the fence. Fen rolls her eyes - though she’s careful to do it where the cameras can’t see - and Quentin laughs. “Welcome to the first day of being royalty, not just nobility,” he jokes, laughing again when Fen threatens to give him back the ring.

Dinner that night is a chaotic affair, and Quentin escapes as quickly as he can. He doesn’t go to his rooms - the servants will just be buzzing about with the news and more congratulations, and it will be far too easy for Lance or his grandfather to find him there. So Quentin takes a right where he normally turns left, and makes his way deeper into the castle, searching out one of the less-frequently-used sitting rooms. He doesn’t dare close the door behind him, but in this room, the noise of the rest of the castle is a distant thrum, something easy to block out. Quentin takes a moment to just _breathe_ before he turns to the shelf, pulling a random book out - some history of the royal family, it looks like - and settling onto one of the chairs for an impromptu study session.

He's not sure how much time passes before he hears footsteps in the hall outside, but he's just started chapter three. He doesn't look toward the door, does his best to focus on the pages rather than the person approaching, but that all goes to shit when the door opens a little further and - _fuck._ Lord Eliot walks into the room.

Eliot looks genuinely surprised to see Quentin, and even a little guilty. "Sorry," he says. "There isn't usually anyone in here."

"It is rather hidden," Quentin says without looking up from his book, regardless of how rude it makes him look. He doesn't say anything else, just prays that Eliot will go away and find some other place to do - whatever it is he was going to do.

Eliot, however, walks further into the room, examining the bookshelf Quentin found his own book on. He's silent for a few moments, but then he says, "I hear congratulations are in order. Shouldn't you still be celebrating?"

"There will be a formal dinner tomorrow," Quentin informs him, still without looking up. "Neither Lady Fen nor I am the kind of person to want extravagant celebrations for every little thing; we're happy to wait."

"You like her, then?" Eliot asks mildly. "Well, you must, if you're agreeing to marry her. I must say, I'm surprised."

That finally gets Quentin to look up. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Eliot says, "she's a glorified farm girl, with no idea how the real world works. I didn't think she'd appeal to a city boy like you."

Quentin blinks, thrown. "A - _what?_ " He closes his book with a snap, and glares at Eliot. "I'll ask you to remember your manners, Lord Eliot, when speaking about other members of nobility and to royalty. Lady Fen is a wonderful woman, who knows Fillory and her people well, and whose company I greatly enjoy."

Eliot just shrugs. "Whatever floats your boat, I guess."

Quentin's eyes narrow, and he straightens in his seat, watching Eliot carefully. "Why do you care what my 'type' is, anyway?"

"I'm very loyal to my country," Eliot says, a gentle smirk lifting his lips. "I wouldn't want my king to be tied down to a woman he doesn't love."

"Love takes many forms," Quentin counters, barely resisting the urge to set his book down so he can cross his arms over his chest. "Romantic love isn't strictly necessary for a happy life."

"No," Eliot concedes. "Usually I'd be the first one to tell you that. But you strike me as a hopeless romantic, the kind of person who's just... waiting for that one epic love. And something tells me Lady Fen isn't it."

"Well, I don't have the luxury of _waiting,_ thanks to your... father's..." Quentin blinks as a thought occurs to him, and then he scowls. "Wait, you're just trying to make me doubt what I'm doing! You don't care about what my type is or how I feel about romance, you just care about stopping the wedding."

Eliot blinks. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Quentin pushes himself to his feet, setting his book on the table next to his chair as he glares at Eliot. "Yeah, sure, pull the other one. I knew I was right not to - " He huffs, turns towards the door. "I wish I could say it's been a pleasure speaking to you, Lord Eliot, but frankly, that would be a lie. Good night."

Eliot gives him a little wave. "Goodnight, Your Highness."

* * *

Quentin doesn't head for his rooms, too keyed up to settle down anytime soon. He needs to move, but more than that, he needs advice, needs to talk about what happened and what to do now. So, he heads for the library. It takes Quentin several minutes to locate Julia in the far back corner, tucked up in a chair with a tome that looks like it weighs half as much as she does, and Quentin drops into the chair next to her without any warning. "I might have fucked up," he says, mindful of the fact that sound travels really well at any volume louder than a murmur. "I need advice."

Julia raises her eyebrows, but she slowly closes the book and turns to him more fully. "What's up?"

"I was reading in one of the parlours, and Eliot found me, and - Jules, he was trying to make me doubt this. Proposing to Lady Fen, I mean."

"What?" Julia asks, wrinkling her nose. "Why?"

"He's a _Waugh,_ " Quentin reminds her. "His brother's the one in line for the throne if I don't get married."

Julia's eyes widen with understanding. "He's trying to get you to back out of the wedding," she realises. "Oh, that snake!"

"Yes!" Quentin says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "And I almost flat-out told him that I was right not to trust any of his family, and I _am,_ but what do I do now?"

"Ignore him?" Julia suggests. "Carry on with your life?"

"And if he won't let me?"

"What exactly do you think he's going to do?" Julia asks. "The only weapon he has is his smartass mouth."

"But he's going to be here for _seven more months,_ " Quentin says, a little desperately.

Julia sighs. "Q, you're giving him too much power," she says. "Ignore him, outright avoid him if you have to, but you can't let him get into your head about this. It's your life."

Quentin groans. "Now you sound like my grandfather. I can't just avoid him, Jules; I have to think about how this will look to Parliament."

"Then maybe you should talk to your grandfather about it," Julia says. She shrugs. "I'm good for 'how to deal with high school bullies' advice, which means either ignore them or slap them, and I don't think you're going to slap him. But I don't know how to navigate, like, political drama."

Quentin groans again. "No, I can't just slap him," he sighs, sounding like he really wishes he could. "I guess you're right, I just - This year is _not _what I expected it was going to be."__

"I know," Julia says, and pats his hand. "I'm so sorry, Q."

Quentin sighs heavily this time. "I'll talk to Granddad tomorrow," he decides. "Tell me about the book you were reading?"

* * *

"Your Highness, _please_ try to remember to keep your elbow up."

Quentin's face heats, and he quickly adjusts his position, his muscles already screaming at him for the strain, still sore from yesterday's archery practice. "Right, yeah, sorry."

His instructor's expression is pained. "You've already lost three dozen arrows in the fields on the other side of this hedge, and broken a dozen more on the ground. Our supply of training arrows is not infinite."

"Of course," Quentin mutters, taking another breath and taking aim. "Right, okay." He pauses for another moment, looses the arrow - and watches in dismay as it soars over the target. It doesn't go over the hedge, not like most of the past week's, but still. There are only two arrows in the _exceptionally_ large target, both on the very edges.

His instructor sighs. "Again," she says. "Widen your stance, and _don't_ round your shoulders."

This practice passes as slowly as the others, though at least this time Quentin doesn't lose any more arrows to the void that is the empty field behind the hedge at the very back of the gardens. He made sure that the servants who had been sent to comb through the field were paid extra for their time, but he still felt guilty that they'd had to be out there to begin with. Of course, they'd only moved their practice range after Quentin had nearly accidentally shot Eliot in the face and Benedict in the knee on his first day.

Eventually, his instructor leaves with firm demands that he practice, because he _needs_ to be ready for the coronation ceremony, and with everything else going on, he can't afford to miss any practice he can take over the next several months. Quentin settles into a rhythm, and has gone through a full quiver before he hears footsteps approaching. Without looking, he calls back, "Stay behind the red line on the grass, please. Trust me, it's safer."

"I can see that," a very unwelcome voice says. "You're not very good at this, Your Highness."

Quentin grits his teeth. "There isn't much call for archery in New York City, Lord Eliot. I only began my tutelage a week ago."

"And who exactly has been put in charge of this tutelage?" Eliot asks. "Because they're clearly an imbecile."

"I'm not nearly killing anyone anymore," Quentin points out, nocking another arrow and taking aim. "I'd say that's pretty good progress for a week's work."

"No, no." The crunch of grass tells Quentin that Eliot has stepped over the red line and is approaching him. "Look at you. Your form's all wrong."

Quentin holds his breath for a moment before he carefully releases the tension on the string, making sure the arrow is pointed away from either of them before he looks at Eliot. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that _you_ are an expert archer," he says, a bit snappy, but he's been at this for over two hours already, he thinks it's excusable just this once.

Eliot just raises one eyebrow. "Do you want my help or not?"

Quentin closes his eyes for a moment - because rolling them is _not_ the appropriate response here - before he sighs. "What advice do you have for me, then?"

A moment of silence passes between them, and then the next thing Quentin knows there's a gentle hand on his shoulder, warm breath on the back of his neck. "Drop this shoulder," Eliot says, softer than anything Quentin has heard him say yet. "You need to relax."

Quentin, however, feels anything _but_ relaxed. "Is the touching really necessary?"

"Yes," Eliot says. He smooths his hand over Quentin's shoulder and along his arm. "Come on. Relax. Drop your shoulder, but don't round it like that."

Quentin takes a deep breath, and does his best to follow Eliot's instruction. "Okay. Now what?"

"Now keep this elbow in line with your shoulder," Eliot says, and moves him accordingly. "No, don't lock the arm holding the bow. _Relax_."

Quentin bites back a snappish retort and instead takes a deep breath. He lets it out slowly, tries to relax, but he's acutely aware of Eliot standing _right_ behind him. "Okay?"

"Okay," Eliot echoes in a murmur. "Now widen your stance a little and just, breathe, okay? You've got this."

Quentin has to suppress a shiver as he does his best to focus on the target and not on Eliot. He doesn't say anything, just adjusts his stance as directed and takes aim, drawing the arrow back. He holds it for a moment, holds his breath, and then - he releases the string. The arrow flies through the air and, almost miraculously, hits the target. It's nowhere close to a bull's eye, but it's also not hanging off of the edge of the target. Quentin blinks at the sight, stunned. "Whoa."

Eliot steps back, but leaves his hand on Quentin's shoulder. "Told you," he says, the smirk evident in his voice. "A lot of life's problems are eased if you just... relax."

"Yes, well, that's a bit difficult to do sometimes," Quentin says, abruptly distracted by the single point of contact between them now instead of the way that Eliot had been all but pressed up against him before. "Thank you for the advice."

"Anytime, Your Highness," Eliot says, his voice low and warm. "Keep practicing and it'll be 'Your Majesty' before you know it."

Despite the warmth in Eliot's voice, Quentin feels like someone's just dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. He steps away from Eliot, turns so that his hand is dislodged, and gives him a hard look. "Not if your father has anything to say about it," he snaps. "Thank you again for the advice, Lord Eliot, but I'm afraid I have other duties I need to attend to today."

If Quentin's tone bothers Eliot, he doesn't show it. "Of course," he says, already backing away. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Prince Quentin."

* * *

Eliot doesn’t seek Quentin out again, and Quentin tells himself and Julia that he _isn’t_ disappointed, he’s actually very very relieved. He doesn’t need any more of Eliot’s advice, doesn’t need any more of _Eliot_ period, and he doesn’t _want_ to see more of Eliot.

He really does his very best to ignore the way that Julia’s expression clearly conveys just how much she doesn’t believe him.

Still, Eliot and all of the problems he represents are the farthest things from Quentin’s mind right now. Lessons on how to be ‘proper’ royalty have been exhausting lately, and taking up far too much of Quentin’s time, so today he’d put his foot down and taken the day off. It hadn’t taken much to convince the servants in the kitchen to pack him food for himself and Julia for at least two meals, and then Quentin had intercepted Julia before she could disappear into the library yet again. They disappear into the gardens instead, Penny - one of Mayakovsky’s favorite guards - with them, and Quentin leads them to one of the more hidden meadows, not quite in the forest but just on the edge of it.

Once they’re settled, blanket and a couple of pillows spread out along with their food, Quentin finally feels himself fully relax for what might be the first time since he arrived in Fillory. They pass the time snacking and talking, catching up and exchanging gossip and talking about everything and nothing. They even manage to draw Penny in for a few short sentences, though Quentin notices that he only really responds to Julia. It’s nice, exactly what Quentin needs, and before they know it they’ve passed half the day in their little bubble.

Their little bubble, which is about to burst.

From his position with his head on Julia’s stomach, lying perpendicular to her as she regales him with some historical tale she’d found, Quentin thinks he hears - “Do you hear footsteps?”

Julia sits up, squinting a little against the glare of the afternoon sun. "I think so, it's-- Oh." She flops back down. "It's _Lord Eliot._ "

Quentin lifts his head, propping himself onto his elbows so he can look for himself. "So it is," he sighs. "Well, this was nice while it lasted." He waits until Eliot has drawn closer before he calls, "Can we help you, Lord Eliot?"

Eliot is looking as fabulous as always, wearing dapper sunglasses and a lemon cardigan tied around his shoulders. "Prince Quentin!" he calls back, waving, as he comes over. "We really must stop running into each other like this." He pauses at the edge of their picnic blanket and peers down at them. "Well, good afternoon, Miss..?"

Julia sits up again and offers Eliot her hand along with a bright smile. "Julia Wicker, official best friend of the future king," she says. "I don't like you."

Eliot chuckles, and takes her hand. "I'm sure we can change that."

"Good luck with that, she still hates her grandmother and she's been trying to get Julia to like her for fifteen years," Quentin laughs, smirking up at Eliot. "You didn't answer my question: Can we help you?"

"Not at all," Eliot says breezily. "I was just out for a walk. It's such a beautiful day."

"It is, which is why we came out here," Quentin says, deceptively mild. "I trust you're enjoying yourself in my family's gardens?"

"Thoroughly," Eliot agrees. "Although I've been trying to find an appropriate area to smoke for days."

"Start at the beginning of the maze, turn left, and go three turns right until you come to a small fountain," Quentin says. "I've heard some of the servants mention that's a good place to smoke. Easy way to put them out, no close hedges to catch fire."

"Excellent," Eliot says. He produces a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and shakes them. "Can I tempt either of you?"

"No, thanks," Quentin says, shaking his head. "I've been trying to quit - no time to smoke, frankly."

Eliot purses his lips. "Pity," he says. "I bet you'd suit an oral fixation."

Quentin gapes at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"You just strike me as the type," Eliot says. He draws a cigarette from the pack and slips it behind his ear. "Well, I guess I'll be on my way."

But Julia says, "Wait. Why don't you join us?"

" _Jules,_ " Quentin hisses, twisting around to look at her, betrayed.

Julia at least looks a little apologetic. "I've been reading a lot about Fillorian nobility," she says, "but there's only so much that books can tell me, and you didn't grow up here." She turns back to Eliot. "It might actually be useful to talk to you, Lord Eliot."

Eliot laughs. "You flatter me," he says. "But I think Prince Quentin would disagree with you."

" _Prince Quentin_ was looking forward to spending the day with his best friend," Quentin complains, giving in to the urge to roll his eyes. "Sit down, let her ask her questions and get it out of her system. Or she'll ambush you at some extremely inconvenient time and place."

"Thanks, I think," Eliot says, but he's laughing as he joins them on the picnic blanket. "This is quite the setup you've got here."

”Well, we were planning on spending the whole day out here,” Julia says. “Okay, first question: Education. Were you privately educated, or did you go to a public school?"

Over the next two hours, Quentin has to - reluctantly - admit that Eliot handles Julia's incessant barrage of questions with grace and aplomb. He even answers honestly, though he makes most answers into a joke. Quentin mostly lies back and lets Julia and Eliot talk, enjoying the way Julia's fingers run absently through his hair as she interrogates Eliot, a poor substitute for pen and paper.

Eventually, Eliot begs off of answering any more questions and takes his leave, disappearing almost as quickly as he'd appeared, and Quentin waits until he can no longer hear Eliot's footsteps before he speaks again. "Well, he handled that better than I thought he would."

"Me too," Julia admits, watching Eliot go with a thoughtful expression. "I still don't like him, but maybe... not as much."

Quentin makes a face. "I still don't trust him," he mutters. "Or his father - but Granddad's been handling the duke. I think Lance is enjoying making sure the duke gets to attend every little tiny, boring meeting; he hates them, apparently."

Julia laughs. "No, I still wouldn't trust them as far as you could throw them," she says. "But I can see why all those guys the servants were talking about just... throw themselves at him. He's very charming."

Quentin doesn't know what expression his face makes, but he knows it's probably something just as weird as his tone as he says, "'Charming,' sure."

"I know he's the bad guy," Julia says. "I'm not suddenly Team Eliot. He's just... an interesting character, that's all."

Quentin squints up at Julia. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Julia says. "Really. Jeez, Q. Paranoid much? You know I'm on your side."

"I know you are," Quentin protests. "I just... also know that sometimes you like to meddle, or act like you know something I don't. Which, I mean. To be fair, you usually do, and you were grilling him pretty hard about all that history and culture."

"You're not wrong," Julia says, "but no. Fillory is just really interesting, and I’m…” She glances away, across the lawn towards where Penny is still hovering, his usual glower firmly in place. “I’m thinking about moving here, maybe? No meddling, I swear."

Quentin blinks up at her, and then grins, wide and unrestrained. “Really? You’re thinking about moving here? For good?”

Julia grins back. “If you’ll have me,” she says. “I really was just using Eliot for my own purposes, and there are worse people I could have asked. He’s very… eloquent?”

Quentin studies Julia for a moment more before he sighs gustily and relaxes back against her. "He _is_ that. And _maybe_ a little bit charming," he admits grudgingly.

Julia laughs and sinks a hand into his hair. "I know, sweetie."

* * *

After that meeting in the gardens, Quentin manages to avoid Eliot for all of two days. They nod civilly to each other when they pass in the hallway, but don't speak. And while it still puts Quentin on edge, he's learned to live with this added stress.

Mostly.

Until, after another day of failed archery lessons compounded by a lack of sleep and too many exacting history lessons in one day, Quentin sneaks a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his room - Benedict was an absolute godsend, really - and heads for the maze. He follows the same directions he'd given Eliot the other day, but Quentin honestly doesn't expect to see him sitting on the edge of the fountain, a lit cigarette already in his mouth. Quentin forgets himself for just a moment, this last frustration pushing him over the edge. "Oh, for _fuck's_ sake," he groans, already turning on his heel.

"Oh, don't go!" Eliot calls after him, sounding almost bored. "I won't tell, I swear."

Quentin grits his teeth, but he pauses. He doesn't quite turn around as he shoots back, "It's not you _telling_ anyone that I'm concerned about."

He hears Eliot sigh, and then get to his feet. "I know," he says, "Look, we haven't exactly gotten off to a great start, and I know that's mostly my fault. I'm sorry. Here, can we start again?"

Quentin doesn't move for another moment - he seriously considers leaving anyway - before he finally sighs and turns to face Eliot. He's surprised to see an earnest expression on Eliot's face, and a lighter held his way. He pauses for a moment, then holds his own up. "You know I've got one of my own, right?"

Eliot shrugs. "Consider it an olive branch."

Quentin studies him intently for a moment before he pockets his lighter and shakes a cigarette from his pack. "Okay," he says, reaching for the lighter. "Olive branch accepted."

Eliot smiles at him and returns to his own cigarette, as well as his perch on the fountain. "So what brings you out here?" he asks. "I thought you weren't smoking anymore."

Quentin doesn't answer until he's lit up and taken his first drag, holding it for a moment before he lets it out. "It's been a long day," he admits. "History lessons all morning, then more archery. Seems like two steps forward, one step back, sometimes."

Eliot frowns at that and flicks his ash onto the grass. "You're still having trouble with the archery?" he asks.

Quentin shrugs. "I'm hitting the target nine times out of ten, but it's not good enough for the coronation ceremony. I know it's still months away, but." He shrugs again, takes another draw. "Feels like I should be better, with the amount of practice I've gone through."

"You'll get there," Eliot says, with confidence. "You've got time. You just need to not get so stuck in your head about it."

Quentin snorts, drawing closer so he can sit on the ledge of the fountain as well. "Story of my life," he says, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure you've seen the tabloids."

"I've seen them," Eliot acknowledges, "but I never believe a word they write." He takes a drag of his cigarette and lets the smoke out slowly. "I've seen enough of what they write about me and mine to know that it's all bullshit."

Quentin snorts. "It's all exaggerated bullshit, sure, but it's not always entirely made up."

Eliot cuts him a sharp glance. "What are you saying?" he asks.

"That depression is a real thing that's fucked up my life before," Quentin says bluntly, without looking at Eliot. "I've got it under control, now, but. There's good days and bad days."

Eliot just stares at him for a moment, apparently taken aback, before he lifts his cigarette to his lips once more. He pulls in a long drag while he mulls over what to say next, and when he finally exhales he says, "Well. You're not alone there."

Quentin cuts a sharp glance at Eliot, but after a moment he relaxes. "Well. Empty words, but, I know it sucks."

Eliot smiles. "Sure does."

Neither of them say anything for a moment. "It just... hits me, sometimes,” Quentin confesses. “I've got all these responsibilities, duties and people I never dreamed I'd have to take care of. I wouldn't trade any of this for the _world,_ mind you, but sometimes I need to take a step back." He taps out his ash, gives Eliot a wry smile. "Maybe sneak a cigarette in the garden before I go back and face everyone again, be Crown Prince Quentin, and not just Quentin, English major with a Philosophy minor."

Eliot wrinkles his nose. "Philosophy?"

Quentin snorts, smiling at the expression on Eliot's face. "Yeah, philosophy," he says. "I liked it, liked the questions it posed about humanity."

"Of course you're the deep and brooding type," Eliot says with an exhale of smoke. "Though I suppose that's a good quality in a monarch."

"Yeah, I tend to overthink about almost everything," Quentin sighs. "But... I don't know, it was more an accident that I got into philosophy? A couple of my credits qualified for my major and for the Philosophy minor, and I found them interesting, so I found more electives that fit both."

"To each their own," Eliot says. He stubs his cigarette out on the edge of the fountain, but then pockets the butt. "At least you found it interesting. I majored in business. Very blah."

"There had to be _something_ you found interesting in college," Quentin protests. "An elective or club?"

Eliot sighs and leans back on his hands. "Yeah," he says. "I was part of the theatre group."

Quentin blinks. "Theater?" He considers Eliot for a moment, drawing in the last of his own cigarette. "I can see it."

Eliot winks at him. "I made an excellent Valjean."

"I'm sure, what with all of... _that,_ " Quentin says dryly, gesturing to the entirety of Eliot's face before he stubs out his own cigarette. He affects an innocent expression and asks, "Did they have to dub your singing voice, or is that just as pretty as the rest of you?"

Eliot barks out a surprised laugh. "No," he says, "I can sing, I assure you. But thanks."

Quentin flushes. "It wasn't - Never mind." He closes his eyes for a moment, turns back towards the garden, but not quite away from Eliot. "Don't know how much longer I'll be able to hide out here."

"Me neither, honestly." Eliot sighs, sparks his lighter. "One for the road?"

Quentin considers him for a moment before he nods. "One for the road," he agrees.

* * *

After that meeting in the gardens, things get… odd. Eliot is more than civil towards him, these days - he’s downright _pleasant,_ as a matter of fact - and while Quentin doesn’t trust it entirely, he returns the change in attitude with one of his own. Rupert is clearly pleased to see that Quentin and Eliot are getting along better, and Quentin has to admit that it makes for one less headache.

Their newfound peace-slash-lack of animosity, however, doesn’t keep Eliot from practically laughing his ass off when Quentin accidentally sets a chicken loose during the formal petitions that his granddad hears once a week. To be fair, most of the people present, including Quentin himself, are laughing hysterically as he and several guards attempt to corral the chicken, but Quentin didn’t need the image of what Eliot looks like when he’s laughing in true mirth.

Quentin’s almost pathetically grateful for Fen’s return to Castle Whitespire in time for the annual guard inspection. She provides a welcome excuse for Quentin to not be social with most people, and her calm familiarity with Fillory’s events provides a welcome balm for Quentin’s frazzled nerves. And, most importantly, Quentin’s missed her. They’ve spoken most days, often through texting whenever they have free time, and Quentin already counts her as one of his friends, maybe as close as Alice.

Knowing that he has Fen, Julia, his granddad, Lance, and Mayakovsky on his side is enough to keep Quentin relatively calm as the inspection starts. His horse is calm, barely flicks an ear at the trumpets that signal the start of the inspection, and despite all of the people and cameras watching, Quentin feels like maybe he can actually do this.

When it’s time, he nudges his heels against Ororo’s sides, urging her forward, and they walk down the line of guards, Quentin making eye contact with each one. He’s so focused on what he’s doing that he barely even notices the groom walking next to him - but he does notice when Ororo tenses beneath him. Quentin tenses reflexively, then makes himself relax; tensing up will do nothing but make Ororo more likely to spook. He tries to settle into his seat, sink his weight into his heels, but before he can do more than turn his head to try to identify what’s affecting her, Ororo has tensed again, and then she rears, once, twice, three times in quick succession. It’s all that Quentin can do to keep his seat; he _does_ lose a stirrup, and pitches dangerously to one side.

Absently, Quentin remembers his instructor mentioning once that horses think best when they’re moving, and that suddenly feels incredibly relatable. Without thinking about it, Quentin digs his heels into Ororo’s side, encouraging her to _go._ She obliges, her hooves kicking up a spray of gravel as they disappear around the corner of the castle.

Luckily, Ororo knows where she wants to be, because Quentin is in no state of mind to steer. She takes them back to the barn, first at a hasty hand-gallop, then backing off into a canter, before finally dropping to a walk, her sides heaving and nostrils flaring as she breathes heavily. Once they’re at the barn, Quentin dismounts on shaky legs, and goes through the motions of untacking and brushing Ororo down on autopilot. The run has done her a world of good; she’s back to her usual self, placidly following wherever Quentin guides her, standing where she’s told to until asked to move again. Quentin, on the other hand, barely manages to keep himself together long enough to get her back into her stall and all but wobble into the tack room to collapse onto a trunk, his head in his hands as he drags in ragged breaths, counting them off in a desperate attempt to stop himself from spiraling into a panic attack.

He loses time for a while, Quentin doesn't know how much, but the next thing he knows there are gentle hands on his wrists, carefully easing his own hands away from his face. "Hey," a soft voice is saying, and _fuck_ , it's Eliot. "Hey, you're okay."

" _Shit,_ " Quentin hisses, jerking his hands away from Eliot. "Don't - fucking touch me right now." The words come out strangled, raw, like he's been screaming ever since he got off of Ororo, but Quentin knows he hasn't made much, if any, noise. "I really, _really_ don't want to see anyone right now, Eliot, so if you could just - just leave, that would be great. Let me get my head on straight in private."

"No," Eliot says. "I'm not leaving you alone like this. I'll back off if you need me to, but we _just_ talked about this, Quentin. If even half of what the tabloids say about you is true, I have to stay with you."

Quentin glares at Eliot, folding his arms across his chest and tucking his hands in against his side. "I don't need a goddamn babysitter, I need some _space_ to get my head sorted. If you want to actually be helpful, go get Julia. I'd rather have her here than you; I trust her."

"All right," Eliot says, straightening up and backing right off. "All right, I'm sorry. But don't hide out here too long. It'll just make the gossip worse."

"With all due respect, Lord Eliot, I know what the gossip is like, so you can take your advice and shove it up your ass." Quentin's voice is little more than a mutter, his gaze fixed out the small window in the tack room rather than on Eliot.

Eliot shakes his head. "Okay," he says. "I'm going. Just... look after yourself, all right?" He waits a moment, but when Quentin doesn't answer, he reluctantly leaves the barn.

He barely gets three steps before he's confronted by the sight of Mayakovsky, Julia, two of Mayakovsky’s guards, one dark-skinned man and one curly-haired woman, and - Duke Waugh. Julia looks genuinely concerned, and brushes past Eliot without sparing him a single glance. Mayakovsky has the same suspicious, too-canny expression he always wears, and Eliot recognizes his father's Courtly Concern expression. The duke takes a step forward, but before he can do more than open his mouth, Mayakovsky has flung an arm into his chest, knocking him back the same step that he'd taken forward. "Lord Eliot," he says, looking at Eliot with one raised eyebrow. "I am sure our king would appreciate reassurance that his grandson has been found and is safe."

Never let it be said that Eliot can't take a hint. "Of course," he says, already moving. "I'll go to him right away."

Mayakovsky waits only until he's out of earshot before he turns to the Duke. "Good," he says, satisfied, "I've been waiting for a chance to speak to you alone."

Duke Waugh gives Mayakovsky a disdainful look. "Whatever for?"

"To make certain you understand a few things." Mayakovsky expression shifts in an instant from something detached but civil to something a lot harder. "The first being that I take my duty to protect the crown _very_ seriously. That includes not only the king, but the prince as well. And I will do whatever it takes to protect them." He grins, and it's more a baring of teeth, an expression which makes him look almost feral. " _And_ I have diplomatic immunity in forty-six countries."

The duke laughs. "Are you threatening me?" he asks.

"No, my lord, I am not." Mayakovsky's expression flattens then. "I'm merely making sure that you understand the full extent of my job, and the... _depths_ of my loyalty to the Chatwins. I will not see any of them, or any they consider family, come to harm."

"Oh, your loyalty to the crown is well understood," the duke scoffs, unimpressed. "You're drunk more than you're not, and hardly competent. I'm not afraid of you, Mayakovsky. The word 'fear' isn't in my vocabulary."

"Maybe," Mayakovsky allows. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a rubber snake, and smirks when the Duke jumps as he slaps it over his shoulder. "But," he continues, from his new position less than two feet away, "it's in your eyes." Releasing the fake snake, Mayakovsky steps back. "It'd be safer for you if you assume I know everything," he muses, turning to leave. "It _is_ my job, after all."

* * *

King Rupert is seemingly waiting for Eliot when he finds him in one of the parlours, directed by one of the servants. He doesn't waste any time. "I assume my grandson is safe?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Eliot says. "I left him in the barn with Julia and your head of security."

Rupert hums thoughtfully. "They'll take good care of him," he says, his gaze sharp as he studies Eliot. "But, while I have you here, I must confess that I am... _curious_ as to why you accompanied your father when I extended the invitation."

Eliot blinks. "My father thought it would be beneficial, for me to come to court and learn how things are done here. Since I'm not the oldest, and won't inherit my father's lands or title, he wanted me to learn how to be of use to the family in other ways."

Rupert hums. "And your thoughts on why he was invited here to begin with?"

"I think it's smart," Eliot admits. "My father poses the biggest threat to your grandson taking over the throne. He's the one who reminded Parliament of the marriage law, and whose son is an alternative heir. It makes sense that you'd want to keep an eye on him."

"Speaking of my grandson," Rupert says, taking the opportunity Eliot so clearly gave him, "what do you think? Of him taking over the throne. I know you two had your differences when you first arrived, but you seem to be getting along now."

Eliot smiles despite himself. "Quentin--" His eyes widen. "Uh. _Prince_ Quentin, is a good person. He's kind, fair, thoughtful... He _feels things_ , so much. I know he struggles sometimes, but who doesn't? He still gets up every morning - which means he's brave, too. And he really loves Fillory, enough to marry someone he doesn't love to keep her." He takes a breath. "But, you know. My brother also has excellent qualities befitting a king."

Rupert's expression gives nothing away. "And what qualities would those be?"

Eliot tries very hard not to gulp. "He's lived in Fillory his whole life," he says slowly, while his mind races. "He understands our people, our customs. He's been raised to oversee the Waughs' lands, to govern the people who live there, to take on my father's title. And our family is the next in line, so he has royal blood, too. It's a much smaller leap from duke to king than it is from city boy to king, I guess. I mean, I know Prince Quentin is, well, a prince, but... he wasn't raised that way."

Rupert nods slowly. "And you believe this makes that much of a difference?"

"My father certainly thinks so."

"Yes, but I didn't ask what your father thinks," Rupert points out.

Eliot smiles again, though this time it's a little tight around the edges. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, we don't really do independent thought in the Waugh household."

Rupert seems unsurprised by this statement, but all he does is hum and dismiss Eliot, a thoughtful look on his face.

* * *

Julia eventually manages to get Quentin out of the barn and back to his rooms, accompanied by Penny and Kady, where they meet with Fen in his sitting room. She's clearly genuinely concerned about him, and Quentin appreciates it. The three of them pass some time talking about everything and nothing, until Quentin finally manages to convince them that he's okay, just tired. They leave him to rest, but Quentin only gets a few minutes' respite before there's a knock at his door again. Bracing himself, Quentin opens the door, then blinks. "Granddad."

"Quentin," Rupert says with a smile. "Good to see you up and about. Can I come in?"

Quentin just stares at Rupert for a moment before seeming to literally shake himself. "Oh! Yeah, yes, of course," he says hastily, stepping to the side.

"Is everything all right, Quentin?" Rupert asks as he steps over the threshold. "I know you had quite a shock today."

"It was... unexpected," Quentin concedes with a self-conscious laugh. "But I'm okay."

"I'm glad," Rupert says. "I spoke to Lord Eliot earlier; he assures me he left you in safe hands."

Quentin doesn't quite know how to react to that, so he settles on a small smile. "Yeah, Julia got me through the worst of it and got me back here."

"And did Lance mention that he saw Fen leaving your quarters with her earlier?"

"She's become a good friend, and she was concerned," Quentin explains.

Rupert chuckles. "I should hope she's a good friend," he says, "if you intend to make her your wife."

Quentin laughs again, leaning against the back of the sofa. "Yeah, that would... kind of suck, if we didn't have a chance to get to know each other first."

"But you like her?" Rupert asks, his expression warm. "You can see yourself spending the rest of your life with her?"

"Yes," Quentin answers, though there’s something strange in his tone. "I don't know if it would ever turn _romantic,_ but I like Fen, and I can see us working well together."

Rupert searches his face for a long moment, and then asks, "Is that something you think you'll miss? Romance?"

Quentin shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not aromantic, and I guess... I always kind of had the thought that I'd like to find someone to fall in love with."

"Everyone wants that," Rupert admits, coming to sit next to Quentin with a sigh. "God knows I did, when I was your age."

"Your marriage to Grandmother was arranged, wasn't it?"

Rupert nods. "Like you and Fen, we met beforehand and became good friends. Great friends. But it was never romantic between us. We knew going into the marriage that we were both giving up on ever having a true romance."

"'Ever'?" Quentin echoes. "But I thought you and - "

Rupert chuckles. "So did we, once upon a time," he admits. "But we're too old for that now. We lost each other in so many ways when I married your grandmother."

"You're never too old to be in love," Quentin says reasonably. "Why can't you give it a try now? If there's any time to do it, then maybe it's now."

Rupert rolls his eyes, his expression fond. "We're not here to talk about my love life, Quentin."

Quentin sighs. "I - Who wants to give up that dream?" he asks rhetorically, glancing at his grandfather and then away. "I'm not... _ecstatic_ about it, but. I like Fen, and, well. There's worse people I could be married to, or I could be marrying a complete stranger."

"Or you could be not marrying at all," Rupert says. "I went into my marriage with my eyes open and I don't regret it for a second. My love of my country came before anything else, until we had your mother. I have absolutely no expectations for you, Quentin. Hopes and dreams, yes, of course, but nothing else. You need to make the decision that's right for you."

Quentin smiles. "I appreciate that," he says honestly. "But I know what I want. I've known for years, ever since I made the announcement to accept the title of 'prince.' I'm not about to let the Waughs steal the throne from our family, not when I've already worked for years to catch up on a lifetime of lessons. I love Fillory, and her people. I may not love Fen in a romantic sense, but we're already friends, and we know what we're getting into."

Rupert smiles, soft and proud. "For what it's worth," he says, "I think you'll make a fine king."

* * *

It takes a couple of days for Quentin to seek Eliot out, but when he does he's not hard to find. He's in the parlour he found Quentin in a few weeks ago, the one Eliot mentioned no one else usually frequents, curled up in the window seat and smoking out of the open window. He starts when Quentin walks in with little more than a gentle rap of his knuckles against the door, and almost drops his cigarette onto the red velvet cushion.

"Shit," Eliot hisses, hastily brushing ash off the upholstery. "Please don't tell anyone. The fountain is off limits for a few days and I was desperate."

"I won't say anything," Quentin assures him, giving Eliot a slight smile. "So long as you don't burn the furniture." He hesitates before moving closer, sitting on the couch by Eliot's window seat. "I wanted to apologize."

Eliot's eyes widen. "Whatever for?"

Quentin takes a breath. "For being incredibly rude when you were only trying to help me."

Eliot sighs as he pulls another cigarette from his pack, and holds it out to Quentin. "I'm pretty sure you were having a panic attack," he says, "or at least fighting one off. I can't exactly be mad at you for that."

Quentin moves closer, taking the offered cigarette and a seat at the open window. "Still," he says. "I didn't have to swear so badly at you to get my point across."

"You effectively communicated your needs," Eliot says, like he's reading out of a textbook. "It's fine, honestly. I went to get Julia and she helped, right?"

"She did," Quentin concedes. "But still, I - " He hesitates, takes a drag of his cigarette to give himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he tries again. "I also shouldn't have implied I don't trust you at all."

Eliot almost chokes on his next drag. "Oh," he says, eloquently, when he's regained his wits. "Well then. That's... a different matter."

"I just - wanted you to know it's not true," Quentin says, and there might be a flush to his cheeks, or maybe that's just due to the sun.

Something about that gets a smile out of Eliot, and he tilts his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you," he says, his voice soft. "I appreciate your candour."

Quentin's answering smile is soft, and they lapse into silence for a few moments. Eventually, Quentin breaks out with a seemingly unrelated question: "Have you ever sorted out the seating for an outdoor event?"

Eliot blinks, thrown for a moment. "Yes," he says slowly. "I plan all of the official events my father hosts."

"Great," Quentin says, relieved. "Would you mind double-checking the seating for the opera event next week? Granddad thought it would be a good opportunity for me, but I've never done the seating for an event _this_ large, and I would appreciate another set of eyes on it before I make the official proposal."

Eliot's laughter is warm and not a bit unkind. "Of course," he says. "How can I refuse my future king?"

* * *

By the time Quentin and Eliot are done going over the seating charts, they’ve both long since finished their cigarettes. It’s nearly time for the evening meal, so they bid each other hasty goodbyes to get ready. Eliot’s so caught up in going over the seating chart they’d eventually settled on - Quentin had had a good start, but it had definitely needed some tweaking - and wondering whether Count Mabelle really should have been seated next to Countess Sterling, or if he should have been placed closer to his neighbor, Count Wash, that he’s startled by his father’s derisive voice as he enters their shared sitting room.

”You stink of ash, Eliot.”

Eliot closes his eyes. "Father," he says. "The ash of the fire I had lit in the parlour, maybe. I haven't had a cigarette since you took mine away from me by the fountain yesterday."

"Hm." The duke is clearly unconvinced, but he lets the matter go for the moment. "And why were you in the parlour?"

 _Fuck_. Eliot takes a breath. "I was talking with Quentin."

One eyebrow rises. "The prince? Well, it's about time."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Eliot asks, a little too sharp.

Duke Waugh gives his son a hard look. "You _do_ remember why I brought _you_ and not Ethan, yes? To help you learn how court works, of course, but also so you could use your... _proclivities_ to your family's advantage for once."

Eliot's mouth twists. "Father, I know exactly why you brought me here - but has it ever occured to you that perhaps Quentin just isn’t interested in me?"

"Then _make_ him interested in you," his father retorts, expression twisted in vague disgust. "Enough to make him doubt the engagement, at least. You've done such things before."

Eliot fights the urge to roll his eyes. "He might not even be queer," he says. "Do you expect me to seduce a straight guy?"

"I'm sure you remember the mess that was your... _affair_ with the Lucases' son," Duke Waugh sneers. "But no, I have it on good authority that there were men on the list of potential spouses, as well as women."

Eliot sighs. "Do you really think he shouldn't be king?" he asks.

The duke scoffs. "I think your brother should be king," he says. "And that is all it takes."

"All right," Eliot says. "I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will."

* * *

The opera-slash-garden party approaches far too quickly for Quentin's liking. He's caught up in a blur of preparations, submitting the seating chart that he and Eliot had come up with, going over the itinerary and the food, and generally shadowing his grandfather and Lance through every set of decisions that they made. It's exhausting, but he still makes time for Fen and Julia, making sure that he and Fen are seen going on walks about the gardens - the only time Quentin has a modicum of peace is, ironically, when he's being most closely watched by cameras - and that they also have time in private to talk and just spend time together. Julia seems happy in the castle, and while she never turns down Quentin’s time or company, Quentin _does_ notice that she’s spending a lot of her own time with Penny and Kady, separately and together. He doesn’t say anything, because it’s not his place to meddle, but he’s happy for Julia, even if he doesn’t understand the attraction to two of the prickliest people he’s ever met.

The day of the party, Quentin wakes up earlier than usual to go over some last-minute details before getting ready. Benedict helps him dress in a simple, sleek suit, and when Quentin meets up with Julia and Fen as they enter the garden, he has to stop and blink for a moment before smiling broadly. "Well, you two look absolutely beautiful," he says, sincere, as he steps forward, takes first Julia's hand and presses a kiss to the back of it before doing the same with Fen's.

"We know," Julia says, smug, at the same time as Fen says, "You're too kind." She blushes. "You look lovely, too."

Quentin grins, sketching a quick bow before offering his arm to Lady Fen. "Thank you, my dear. Shall we take our seats?"

The opera event is lovely, even if some of the language in a few of the songs is a bit too advanced for Quentin to follow easily. Still, he doesn't have to fake his appreciation of the singers' fine talents, and his applause is genuine, as is his praise when he's called upon to say a few words to bring the opera portion of the event to a close, and move them on to the garden party bit. Afterwards, Quentin, Julia, and Fen mingle, until something catches Quentin's eye as they're getting drinks. "Who is Lord Eliot's date?" he asks no one in particular, trying to place the flare of... _something_ in his chest. Heartburn, perhaps?

"That's Lady Margo," Fen answers, following Quentin's gaze. "The Waughs and the Hansons are old friends. Wow, her dress is beautiful, isn't it?"

"It is beautiful," Quentin agrees, "but not as lovely as yours. You know her?"

Absurdly, Fen flushes a little. "Oh, not very well," she admits. "Father and I attended her coming out ball a few years ago, but she-- she was busy for mine."

"A shame," Quentin says sincerely. "I bet it was a lovely event." He glances over at Eliot and Lady Margo, frowns slightly when she laughs and puts a hand on Eliot's arm and it makes that strange sensation flare in his chest once again. Refocusing on Fen, Quentin smiles and gestures to the rest of the party. "Shall we mingle?"

"Yes," Fen says, and slips her hand into Quentin's. "Let's."

They take their time making the rounds of the garden, speaking with those guests it is most important that the Crown Prince and his fiancee speak to and be seen doing so. Fen holds up admirably, nudging conversation when Quentin flounders, and engaging others in conversation herself while Quentin is busy. He can see them doing this later on, not just while engaged, but after - after marriage, after he’s crowned king. _She really would make a good queen,_ Quentin finds himself thinking with a fond smile as he watches Fen smoothly navigate a conversation with Dowager MacDonald, even managing to get the severe line of her mouth to soften just a little, just enough to be noticeable.

When Fen tucks herself in against his side as they set off once again, this time for the edge of the party for a breather, Quentin can’t help grinning at her. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

"I like this part," Fen admits with a pleased smile. "Talking to people, making them feel comfortable. I'm good at it, I think."

"You are," Quentin assures her. "Very good at - Oh! Lord Eliot."

Fen wheels in surprise just as Eliot and Margo reach them. Eliot gives them a little wave. "Prince Quentin," he says with a warm smile. "Lady Fen. May I introduce my date, Lady Margo Hanson?"

"We've met, actually," Fen says, offering her hand to Margo. "It's lovely to see you again."

”Lady Fen… We met at my coming out party, correct?” Margo says, taking Fen’s hand and giving her a charming smile. “It’s difficult to forget such a lovely face.”

Fen _giggles_ at that, which-- Quentin doesn't think he's ever heard her giggle. "I'm sure you met many people that night," she says. "You were by far the loveliest, though."

Margo's smile widens. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she says lightly. "Your dress today is beautiful; it compliments your suit well, Your Highness."

Quentin inclines his head, gives Margo a smile of his own. "And yours is just as finely-made."

"You both look wonderful," Fen offers. "But, of course, Lady Margo, you're stunning."

Eliot chuckles, deep and warm. "Your Highness, perhaps we should get our lovely ladies a drink while they catch up?"

"I would appreciate a drink," Margo says, giving Eliot a bright smile that borders on a smirk.

Quentin shakes his head, smiling, and gives Fen's hand a brief squeeze. "We'll be back," he promises.

Eliot makes a show of kissing the back of Margo's hand before he lets it go, and then it's just him and Quentin, wandering back through the grounds of the castle in search of a caterer. "So," Eliot says, "are you enjoying yourself? I'd say you did a great job organising this whole thing."

"Your input for the seating chart was a great help," Quentin says, "but yes, I am. More than I expected to, at any rate. This is... less claustrophobic than a ball."

Eliot chuckles. "You're not wrong," he says, "since we're literally outside." He glances around them pointedly, and his grin widens when he catches sight of Fen and Margo again. "It looks like your date _likes_ my date."

Quentin follows Eliot's gaze, smiling when he catches sight of Margo and Fen. As he watches, Margo laughs at something Fen says, reaching out to push lightly at Fen's shoulder; Fen practically _beams_ at the sound of Margo's laughter. "Well, good. Fen needs more friends in her life, honestly." He glances at Eliot, nods towards the edge of the party. "Should we give them some more time to talk?"

"Absolutely," Eliot says. "Why don't we aim for our little fountain? My father is otherwise occupied today."

"That sounds lovely," Quentin agrees, leading the way.

They stroll without too much care until they reach their destination. It's far from the grandest fountain in the castle grounds, and tucked just far enough out of the way that the other guests have yet to discover it as a viable smoking area. Once they get there Eliot hops up to sit on the fountain, and draws a single cigarette from his breast pocket, along with a lighter. He lights up and takes a long, luxurious drag, and Quentin can literally see the tension melting from his shoulders when he releases the smoke. " _Ahh_ ," he sighs, "pure bliss." He cuts his gaze to Quentin, and then holds out the cigarette. "I don't suppose you have any on you, but I only brought the one."

"I wasn't exactly planning on sneaking away for a smoke," Quentin laughs, moving closer until he can take the cigarette from Eliot. "But thank you."

Eliot smirks and twists so that he's lounging along the wall of the fountain instead of just sitting on it, one leg bent at the knee and one arm curled behind his head. "That," he says after a moment, "is exactly where you're going wrong as a smoker." He gestures with his free hand for the cigarette. "Always be prepared."

"No," Quentin laughs, obligingly handing it back. "That's where I'm going _right_ as someone trying to quit." He hesitates for a moment, then decides he has nothing to lose by asking, "So, Fen said that the Waughs and the Hansons are old friends?"

Eliot laughs. "Oh, yes," he says. "Our fathers _love_ each other. Luckily for Margo and I, we're nothing like our fathers, so we love each other, too."

That strange sensation is back _again,_ and Quentin makes a note to try to avoid the hors d'oeuvres for the afternoon, since his stomach obviously doesn't like something there. Clearing his throat, Quentin isn't sure what to say besides, "Oh?"

"We've known each other since we were little," Eliot goes on. "We didn't grow up together or anything, but we went to the same college and bonded over being the least favourite child." He smiles to himself. "We've been inseparable ever since."

"So she's a bit like your Julia, then?" Quentin wonders.

"Probably," Eliot agrees. "She's my best friend, the most important person in my life. And we're definitely expected to get married."

Quentin nearly chokes on the next drag of the cigarette he and Eliot are still passing between themselves. "Really?" he says, and there's definitely a damning note of _something_ in his voice that he does his best to ignore. "That - Well. There's worse people you could be marrying than your best friend?"

If Eliot notices anything in Quentin's tone or expression, he doesn't react to it. He just smiles. "Yeah," he says. "We'd make a fucking epic power couple."

Quentin snorts, manages to drum up a smile as he passes the cigarette back to Eliot, their fingers brushing. "Yeah, I bet. Lady Margo seems... Well, like she doesn't take anyone's shit."

"She certainly doesn't," Eliot agrees with a laugh. "I don't really gel with doormats."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "'Doormats'?" he echoes.

Eliot just shrugs, smoking leisurely. "I like people who know who they are, and won't apologise for it."

Quentin studies Eliot for a long moment. "I can see that," he eventually says. "Too bad you're a noble; not many people like that around you."

"Tell me about it," Eliot sighs. "Everyone's a fucking fake. But not my Margo."

" _Your_ Margo?" Quentin's eyebrow climbs higher, and this time there's definitely something off about his tone. "Guess that marriage your folks want will be happening, huh?"

"Probably, yeah," Eliot says. He raises an eyebrow. "Are you... _jealous_ , Your Highness?"

"No," Quentin denies immediately, because he can't _possibly_ be jealous. "Why would I be? It's no business of mine who you marry."

"I have no idea," Eliot says, though he's smirking. "You tell me."

Quentin rolls his eyes, shifts in place to try to get out of the sun that's making his face feel unusually hot. "I'm not jealous," he says. "I have my own relationship, and you and I are... friendly acquaintances, if nothing else. I'm sure you and Margo will have plenty of fun terrorizing the nobility together."

Eliot's laughing as he sits up. "I never suggested it was me you were jealous of," he teases. "Perhaps it's because you know that you and Fen will never share a love as fierce as mine and Margo's." He grins. "But I like that that's where your mind went."

There's a little voice in the back of Quentin's mind that sounds suspiciously like his grandfather's telling him he needs to make his excuses and leave, _now._ Instead, however, Quentin finds himself shifting again, turning to face Eliot this time. "Really? You think I'm jealous of you?"

Eliot's expression is all cocky confidence. "Well," he says, "you're either jealous because I'm marrying Margo... or because she's marrying me."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "I have a fiancée, remember? I don't need another."

"Perhaps not," Eliot allows, leaning towards Quentin, "but something tells me you could use a little bit of excitement."

Quentin laughs, a low, warm sound, as he leans into Eliot's space like iron to a magnet. "'Excitement'? Like what?"

"Like this, maybe," Eliot says, and in the next breath he has his hand fisted in Quentin's shirt, dragging him in for a fierce kiss.

Quentin's surprised noise is muffled against Eliot's lips, and he maybe even kisses Eliot back -

But only for a moment.

Then, he's yanking himself away, gasping out, " _What_ do you think you're - " only to cut himself off with a yelp as Eliot's refusal to let go of his shirt combined with Quentin's efforts to put some space between them overbalance them on the ledge of the fountain, sending them backwards.

They hit the water with an almighty crash, soaking themselves and the grass around the fountain. Someone definitely heard that, there are going to be people all around them at any moment, and Eliot-- Eliot is _laughing_.

"Oh my god," he wheezes, "if you wanted to get my clothes off all you had to do was ask."

It takes every bit of restraint Quentin possesses not to slap Eliot then and there. Instead, he grits his teeth and clambers not-so-gracefully out of the fountain. "The _last_ thing I want is to see you right now, clothes or not, Lord Eliot," he says stiffly, wringing his hair out. "I'd offer you a hand out, but seeing as _you_ are the reason we ended up in there, you can get yourself out." Once his hair is no longer actively dripping, Quentin rakes a hand through it to put it back in some semblance of order before turning and his heel and making for the exit of the maze; with any luck, he won't actually be seen by more than a few people.

* * *

The king comes to him later that evening. Quentin can't look him in the eye as he lets him into his rooms, but Rupert doesn't grant him any leeway. "I'm not sure I want to know what happened today," he says sternly, "but unfortunately I need to."

Quentin sighs heavily. "I made a mistake," he admits, sitting down heavily on the couch. "I - Lord Eliot and I took a walk, because Fen and Lady Margo were enjoying their conversation, and I didn't leave when I should have."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Rupert asks.

"Meaning, I fucked up!" Quentin cries. "I thought, _maybe_ he might be flirting, or he might just be - being himself, I can never tell when someone's flirting, but I never thought he'd actually _kiss_ me!"

"He kissed you," Rupert says flatly. "Quentin, you have a fiancée. The future of our country depends on you making her your wife."

" _I know!_ " Quentin says, frustrated. "I already admitted it was a mistake, but it's not going to happen again. I swear."

Rupert sighs. "Quentin, I'm not sure you grasp the seriousness of this situation."

"The situation is grasped!" Quentin protests before deflating. "It's just... The execution is a bit. Lacking."

Rupert raises his eyebrows as if to say, 'no shit'. "You need to be more careful," he says. "If you want to cancel the wedding, that's one thing, but if you don't then you can't be seen to be unfaithful to Fen. What if the media got hold of this?"

Quentin's expression twists. "I know," he says, the words heavy on his tongue. "I know. I don't want to cancel the wedding, and Lord Eliot won't be a potential problem, not like this. I promise."

"You need to stay away from him," Rupert says. "He could ruin everything we've been trying to build here. And if the press find out, they definitely will. They'll paint this as another breakdown."

Quentin bites back a snappish retort, swallowing it down and nodding. "I know," he murmurs. "Believe me, I'm not planning on having anything to do with him after today."

Rupert just nods, his expression grave. "A wise choice."

* * *

Quentin makes good on his promise to avoid Eliot over the next few days; it’s easy, since there’s so many preparations to take care of for the Independence Day parade. He has to have his royal wave perfected _just_ so, has to go over the route and all possible security compromises and procedures with Mayakovsky, and meet with Lance and his grandfather and go over what’s expected of him during the parade, to make sure that he doesn’t accidentally fuck something up and cause some sort of national scandal. They’d been lucky to avoid that so far with the whole thing with Eliot and the fountain, but none of them want to push their luck any further.

The day of the parade dawns bright and clear, and just warm enough that extra coats aren’t needed. With practiced efficiency, the cavalcade is loaded up and ready to go, Quentin and his grandfather settled just past the middle. They set off at the appointed time, procession winding through Whitespire. At first, everything seems to be going perfectly to plan. There’s no bumps in the road, the horses and carriages rolling smoothly down the stones. People have flooded the side streets, setting up seats to watch the royal procession pass. Quentin waves and smiles, his back straight and posture proper - until a scuffle catches his attention.

Off to the side, beneath the arch of a door to what is labeled Whitespire Orphanage, a young girl is being hassled by two boys. Her body language is something that Quentin is _intimately_ familiar with: hunched shoulders, gaze dropped to the ground, trying to make herself as small as possible in the hopes that the people picking on her will forget she exists more quickly.

Quentin hesitates, almost can’t make himself speak - but when the young girl is about to be lost to his sight, Quentin finds his voice. “Stop!” he orders, glancing at the driver of the carriage, who immediately pulls on the reins, drawing the horses to a stop. Quentin’s moving before the carriage has fully stopped, ignoring his grandfather’s questioning glance as he hops out, making his way towards the orphanage. The gathered children watch his approach with wide eyes, parting easily when he murmurs a soft, “Excuse me.” He makes his way up the steps, crouching down in front of the young girl and offering her a soft smile. “Hello,” he says. “My name is Quentin. What’s yours?”

The girl’s eyes are wide as she looks at Quentin, licking her lips before she whispers, “Felicia, your highness.”

Quentin’s smile widens. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Felicia,” he says, reaching for her hand and bringing the back of her knuckles to his lips when she gives it to him. “I couldn’t help but see your beautiful face in the crowd, and was wondering if you’d like to walk with me?” Felicia’s eyes go wide, and she glances over her shoulder to a gaggle of girls just to the side, and Quentin continues, “Your friends can come, too. As a matter of fact,” he decides, pushing himself to his feet and shifting his hand so that he’s holding Felicia’s, “why don’t you all join us? I can show you how to wave like real royalty, too, so you’ll fit right in.”

Awe spreads across the group of children, who turn pleading expressions on their supervisor, who shakes their head with a fond smile before nodding to Quentin. Quentin beams back, and rounds the kids up, ordering them in small rows with the smallest children in the front and the tallest in the back, with Felicia at his side. A quick lesson in how to do the Royal Wave™, and they’re ready to go; when Quentin turns around, he catches the soft look on Eliot’s face in the crowd, and studiously ignores the way that his heart stumbles over itself at the sight, glancing at his grandfather instead. Rupert is looking at him with approval clear in his gaze, and when Quentin nods at his questioning look, he orders the parade onward once more. Quentin and his group of children fall in line behind the royal carriage, and the onlooking crowd is buzzing with conversation - but no disapproval, not that Quentin can see.

With his hand in Felicia’s as they walk down the street, waving to the onlookers, Quentin thinks that maybe - _just_ maybe - this is all going to work out.

* * *

Eliot hasn't seen Quentin since he watched on from the crowds during the Independence Day parade. Quentin had looked incredibly handsome, not to mention regal, beside his grandfather in their carriage, but it was what happened when Quentin stopped the procession that Eliot hasn't been able to get out of his head. He sits on it for days, mulls it over until he realises that he has to do something, and then he goes to his father.

It takes him at least a minute to knock on the door to his father's rooms, and when he hears the call to let himself in, he takes another second to steel himself. The duke is sitting at his desk, going over some kind of paperwork, and he doesn't even look up at Eliot's entrance. Eliot walks over until he's standing right beside his father, and draws himself up to his full height. "I need to talk to you," he says.

"And it can't wait?" the duke asks, blunt. "I'm in the middle of something."

"No, it can't wait," Eliot says. "I don't want to do this anymore."

 _That_ gets the elder Waugh's attention. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want to do this anymore," Eliot repeats. "Quentin is a good person, and he's going to be a good king. Neither of those things can be said for Darren."

Duke Waugh's expression darkens. "That is your brother you speak of," he reminds Eliot with a sharp tongue. "What makes you so certain that Quentin will be a good king?"

Eliot takes a breath. "He's kind," he says. "He cares about this country and the people in it. And he's smart, and he's fair, and he... He wants to do a good job, desperately. He's spent the last few years learning how to run this country, learning about its history and its culture and its laws and politics, _on top_ of getting his degree. He's ready."

His father doesn't say anything for a long moment, expression intense as he scrutinizes Eliot - and then it clears, understanding sweeping across his face. "You're in love with him."

Eliot forces any emotion off his face, makes himself breath slowly, in, out. "My feelings have nothing to do with it," he says evenly. "It's just true. Even you can see that, surely."

The duke snorts. "Darren will make a fine king, with advisors at his side. What do you hope to gain from _Quentin_ if you succeed in talking me out of this? You think he'd love you back? He's avoided you ever since the garden party, Eliot."

"I don't want anything from him," Eliot says honestly. "I just think he deserves to be king more than Darren."

The silence between them stretches for so long that Eliot half-thinks his father will never speak again by the time he does just that. "Very well."

The shock punches the breath out of Eliot. "Really?" he asks. "Just like that?"

Duke Waugh inclines his head. "He'll still need to be married before he can be crowned, but I won't ask you to try to keep that from happening any longer.

Eliot can hardly believe his luck, but he still feels dizzy with relief. "Thank you," he says. "I really appreciate this, Father."

The duke waves a dismissive hand, turning back to the papers on his desk. "Yes, yes. I'll be busy for the rest of the day, so why don't you go and tell him that we're conceding defeat, hm?"

"I will," Eliot says - and he leaves his father's rooms lighter than he's felt in a long time.

* * *

Eliot finds Quentin in the grounds, practicing his archery again, and he takes a moment just to stand on the periphery and watch him do his thing. He's being creepy, though, so he doesn't linger for long. "You're getting good at that," he calls eventually. "Like, really good."

It's a good thing that Quentin's just shot his arrow, because the way he twitches when he hears Eliot's voice would have almost certainly sent it sailing far over the target. "Lord Eliot," he says, lowering the bow and turning to half-face Eliot. "Thank you for the compliment."

"You're welcome," Eliot says, walking closer. "Can we talk?"

Quentin holds his ground, but his gaze is wary. "About what?"

"I want to apologise," Eliot says. "For what happened at the garden party. I overstepped, and I never meant to put you in that position."

Quentin bites back his first retort, instead taking the time to study Eliot for a moment before he nods. "Very well. I accept your apology."

Eliot knows his surprise shows on his face, but he manages to smile through it. "Thank you," he says. "It won't happen again, I swear."

Quentin nods, hesitating for a moment before he asks, "Is that... all you approached me for, Lord Eliot?"

"No," Eliot admits. He takes a breath. "I came to tell you that we're giving up."

Quentin blinks. "'Giving up'?"

"We're going to stop trying to get my darling older brother onto the throne," Eliot says. "I spoke to my father about it today, and he agreed. We're leaving in the next few days."

Quentin blinks again. "Truly? Well. Granddad will be pleased to hear that - not that you're leaving, but that you aren't going to be meddling any longer."

Eliot smiles. "A little bit because I'm leaving, though, right?"

”Perhaps only a _little_ bit,” Quentin allows with a quiet chuckle. “We rarely have guests stay for as long as you and the Duke have.” He hesitates for a moment and then adds, "I did enjoy your company. For the most part.”

Eliot wrestles with the urge to make some kind of inappropriate comment, and wins. "Me too," he says instead, and he means it. "I'm sure we'll see more of each other in the future. Especially once you're my king."

Quentin smiles. “I’m looking forward to it, Lord Waugh.”

* * *

Duke Waugh and Lord Eliot leave with less fanfare than when they arrived, and the people still at Whitespire settle in to the business of arranging a wedding for a month’s time. Fen moves to Whitespire, to make it easier for the seamstress who is working on her dress to make alterations and to be able to consult on the final decisions for decorations, food, and seating arrangements. She’s in her element, and Quentin’s happy to leave her to it, giving his opinion whenever they meet to discuss wedding details, but ultimately deferring to her judgement.

Quentin has his own duties to keep him busy, preparing to meet with Parliament for the assessment of his worthiness for the throne. He barely sees Julia, barely sees anyone who isn’t his grandfather, Lance, Mayakovsky, or Fen. Lance assures him that things will settle down after the coronation, and Quentin dearly hopes that he’s right. One thing that he is glad for is Margo’s frequent visits to Whitespire; at least, when he’s busy, Fen isn’t in a strange castle dealing with all of this wedding craziness all the time, or all by herself.

The guests invited to the wedding begin arriving a week before the date, and Quentin gets the distinct feeling of being in the home stretch. Every member of Parliament is invited - it is a _royal_ wedding, after all - and the Waughs are the last to arrive. Duke Waugh, his wife, and all four of his sons take up residence in the same suite of rooms that the duke and Eliot had occupied, as well as a couple of extras for the additional family members. Quentin greets them along with his grandfather as they arrive, and if Eliot’s gaze lingers on him, if he extends their handshake just a moment longer than strictly necessary, then Quentin doesn’t give any indication of the way his heart reacts.

He’s spent the past month trying to forget almost everything that Eliot made him feel, he’s not losing that progress over a damn _handshake._

Quentin is distracted for the next few days with the last of the preparations, and the night before his wedding, he can't sleep. He goes to dinner, makes conversation as he's expected to, and begs off as soon as he can, citing the need for an early night. He fully intends to get one, but then... Well, then he spies the note on his desk, one with elegantly-curving calligraphy that he recognizes as Eliot's. Quentin hesitates for only a moment before picking it up, sliding his thumb beneath the flap to break the seal. It's a brief note, inviting Quentin to join Eliot at 'the usual spot.'

Quentin shouldn't go, he's pretty sure. Not after what happened the last time he and Eliot were at that spot, but... There's a restless energy beneath his skin, something that aches to move, to do something a little reckless just _one_ last time.

So Quentin goes.

Eliot is waiting for him, looking dapper as always, halfway through a cigarette with another one tucked behind his ear. He reaches for it as soon as he spots Quentin, and holds it out to him. "Your Highness," he says, with a formal little bob of his head. "Thank you for coming."

"Lord Eliot," Quentin says, not fighting the smile that wants to curve his mouth as he takes the offered cigarette. "It's good to see you."

"How have you been?" Eliot asks, looking Quentin up and down like he's drinking in the sight of him. "Busy with wedding preparations, I'm sure."

"Wedding and coronation preparations," Quentin sighs, but he's smiling. "The coronation won't be until the original year Granddad and I had planned on has been finished, but there's still preparations to be made, protocols I need to memorize..."

"Boring stuff," Eliot says with a wave of his hand. "But at least there's going to be a coronation."

"Yeah, there's that," Quentin says with a quiet laugh. The two of them lapse into silence for a few moments, each smoking their cigarettes and studying the other until Quentin speaks again. "Why did you send me that note?"

Eliot sighs, and he gives Quentin a look he's never seen before. "I missed you," he admits. "I wanted to see you again, before everything changes tomorrow."

Quentin blinks slowly, lifts one eyebrow. "You missed me?" he repeats, not malicious or mocking, but still slightly... disbelieving.

"Yeah," Eliot says, simple and honest. He wets his lips, looks like he's struggling with his next words. "I know we didn't leave things on the greatest note, last time, but it doesn't change how I feel about you."

Quentin's eyes widen as Eliot's words sink in, and the cigarette hangs dangerously loose between his fingers. "Oh," he says, a bit dumbly, before swallowing. "No, it - You're right, it wasn't the greatest note. But... I am. Glad. To see you again, that is."

Eliot smiles, soft and strange, and then he turns away to stub his cigarette out against the edge of the fountain. As always, he pockets the butt, and then holds out his hand to Quentin. "Walk with me?"

Quentin has the vaguest beginning of a thought that maybe he shouldn’t - but he waves it away as he stubs his own cigarette out, copying Eliot and pocketing the butt. “All right,” he says, giving in to the urge to take Eliot’s hand instead of folding his own behind his back.

Eliot gives him a pleased smile and sets them off on a gentle ramble throughout the grounds. "I don't know how much time you've had to spend out here," he says after a little while of walking in silence, hand-in-hand, "but I was out here pretty much all the time that I wasn't holed up in that parlour when we stayed here. It's really beautiful."

"It is," Quentin agrees. "I don't get nearly enough time to just... wander."

"I guess not," Eliot says. He hesitates a moment, and then asks, carefully, "Are you looking forward to it? The wedding?"

"I am," Quentin says honestly. "It will be nice to be done with all of this fuss, and I'm looking forward to moving on to the next step of my life."

"Being a king?" Eliot asks. "Or being a husband?"

"Both, I suppose, though I won't be the typical husband, at least at first," Quentin chuckles. "This isn't a love match, but Fen and I are great friends, and who knows what the future may hold?"

Eliot's hand tightens in Quentin's and then relaxes again. "You think you'll fall for her?" he asks.

Quentin considers that for a moment. "I think I could, given time," he settles on. "But even if that never happens, I know I can be content with her as my friend and co-ruler."

Eliot nods. "That's very mature," he offers. "I've said it before, but you will make a good king."

Quentin snorts. "I hope so, but only time will tell." They walk in silence for another moment before Quentin prompts, "What have you been up to since you left?"

“Not a lot, actually,” Eliot admits. “As I’m sure you know, Margo has been spending a lot of time here - with your lovely fiancée, I believe. Under normal circumstances she takes up most of my time. We like to travel as much as our family obligations allow us, but we haven't been able to go abroad for a while, so we've been planning our next excursion in between her trips to Whitespire."

"Where have you two been?" Quentin asks, curious.

Eliot regales Quentin with stories from his and Margo's adventures while they stroll around the grounds, still holding hands. It's late, but still warm, and neither of them are in any hurry to part ways. Eliot finds that he rather enjoys making Quentin laugh, just like he likes having the warmth of Quentin's smile directed at him. It makes him want to drag this out a little longer, get whatever he can from this little excursion, and he turns them with purpose towards the lake.

They've wandered further into the grounds than most people bother to come, but like Eliot said earlier, he's spent a lot of time out here. He knows exactly where they are, and he knows the perfect spot. "I came out here a few times, when I couldn't get far enough away from my father," he confides as he leads Quentin up to a willow tree at the edge of the water. "It's a nice place to think."

"It's beautiful," Quentin says, smiling as he looks out over the water, taking in the way the moonlight dapples across it. "Peaceful."

"Do you want to sit?" Eliot asks.

Quentin glances back at Eliot, still smiling. "On the bare ground? I didn't know you'd lower yourself so, Lord Eliot," he teases.

Eliot rolls his eyes and folds himself gracefully to the ground. "Would you?" he asks, gazing up at Quentin with something that might be heat in his eyes.

Quentin hesitates for only a moment before he follows suit, sitting on the ground criss-cross applesauce. "At least it isn't muddy," he says dryly.

"A little dewy," Eliot notes, running his fingers over the grass. "Nothing your royal dry cleaner can't handle."

"And luckily, they won't ask questions," Quentin laughs, tilting his face to catch a soft breeze lifting off of the lake.

"What's a few grass stains between friends?" Eliot chuckles - and produces a flask from his jacket pocket. "You want?"

Quentin gives the flask a considering look. "Depends. How strong is whatever you've got in there?"

"Pretty strong," Eliot admits. He gives the flask a shake, the liquid sloshing about inside. "But there's only about half or so left."

Quentin hesitates for another moment before giving in. What's one more questionable decision in a night full of them? "All right, I'll have a little bit."

Eliot grins and hands it over; Quentin unscrews the top, lifting it to take a sip. He pauses, frowning thoughtfully, and then takes another one. "Huh. Wouldn't have expected you to have something so... fruity in your flask. Can still taste the alcohol, though, holy shit."

Eliot’s grin widens. "I mixed it myself," he admits. "It's a hobby of mine."

Quentin's expression betrays his surprise as he hands the flask back. "And where did a lord learn to mix drinks?" he asks, teasing. "During rehearsals?"

"Something like that," Eliot agrees, and takes a drink for himself. He just looks at Quentin for a long moment, considering, and Quentin feels the back of his neck prickle with the intensity of his gaze. Endless seconds pass between them, and then Eliot takes a breath. "Can I ask you something?"

Quentin glances at Eliot, then nods. "Sure."

"Why did you agree to meet with me?" Eliot asks.

Quentin blinks. "I - " He takes a deep breath, lets it out on a sigh as he runs a hand through his hair. "Mostly just... to do something kind of reckless, before everything changes tomorrow, before I _really_ have to buckle down and be Crown Prince Quentin all the time. And - And I wanted to see you."

Eliot smirks and takes another drink before handing the flask back to Quentin. "And seeing me is reckless?"

Quentin shrugs, taking the flask back and taking a sip. "Yeah. And the fact that I all but snuck out in the middle of the night to see you."

Eliot inclines his head to concede the point, and then fixes Quentin with a heated look. "Do you want to make it a little more reckless?"

Quentin stills. "Depends," he says, cautious. "What did you have in mind?"

The glint in Eliot's eyes is wicked. "Truth or dare," he says. "Or just truth, if you're not feeling too adventurous."

The sheer absurdity of Eliot's suggestion startles a laugh from Quentin. "What are we, teenagers again?" he snickers. He considers it for a moment before nodding. "All right, truth or dare - but dares have to be something we can do here and now."

"Deal," Eliot says. "You go first."

" _Fuck,_ " Quentin laughs, taking another swig from the flask before he makes his choice. "All right. Dare."

"Hmm..." Eliot casts his gaze around, looking for something dare-worthy. There isn't actually a lot to do in a garden in the middle of the night, but he decides to start out slow. "I dare you to climb that tree."

Quentin follows Eliot's gaze, and he laughs. "Really? Climb the tree?"

Eliot shrugs. "Yeah. Why not?"

Quentin shakes his head, but he's smiling as he hands the flask back and pushes himself to his feet. "It's a good thing I'm not still all dressed up from the meetings today," he says, heading for the nearby tree and gauging the height of the first branch before he backs up a step so that he can get a running start. He jumps, grabs the branch, and braces himself against the trunk, scrambling up until he's sitting on a sturdy branch several feet off of the ground. "Good enough for you?" he calls down to Eliot, grinning.

Quentin can't see Eliot's expression in the darkness, but he sounds impressed when he says, "Fine. Come on, your turn."

Quentin takes his time climbing down, mindful of the darkness and how awkward explaining a twisted ankle or even a broken limb would be. Once he's safely back on terra firma, he makes his way back to Eliot's side. "Alright," he says, dropping back down to the ground. "Truth or dare?"

"Hmm," Eliot says. "Truth."

Quentin considers Eliot for a long moment before he settles on his question. "What is your most embarrassing childhood story?"

Eliot snorts and reaches for the flask. "Pass. New question."

Quentin holds it out of reach. "Nope, that's not how the game works," he says with a grin. "If you pass on the question, you have to take a dare."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Fine. Dare me."

Quentin thinks about it for a moment. "I dare you to do a handstand and hold it for thirty seconds."

Eliot barks out a laugh. "Piece of cake," he says, and gets to his feet. "Are you going to count?"

Quentin grins, leaning back on one palm. "As soon as you're upside down, I'll start."

"All right," Eliot says. He shakes himself out a little bit, plants his feet, and raises his hands. "All right." And then he just-- goes for it.

He makes through two very wobbly 'Mississippi's before he overbalances and flips all the way over, landing on his back with an almost-painful-sounding _thump._ Quentin manages to rein his laughter in long enough to call, "That was a very good effort!"

"Ugh, I hate you," Eliot groans, rolling over and pushing himself onto his knees. "I haven't done that since college."

Quentin laughs. "It shows," he teases. "But hey, you lasted two seconds longer than I would have."

Eliot sticks his tongue out at him in a surprising display of maturity and stands up. "All right, asshole. Truth or dare?"

The next round is still tentative, the both of them testing the limits of what they can get away with before they let loose. At some point, they stop daring each other to do juvenile stunts, and the game shifts to something more like Truth or Truth, both of them learning more about each other. Finally, when the flask is just about empty, Quentin finally gets the courage to ask, "Tell me about the rest of your family?"

Eliot blows out a long breath, and although he looks more guarded now than he did before, he doesn't refuse. "What do you want to know?" he asks.

Quentin hesitates, feeling like he needs to tread carefully. "I know your dad is... kind of an ass, honestly. And you've got two brothers. Are they as bad as he is?"

Eliot laughs at that. "Oh yeah," he says. "Darren is the favourite, so he's by far the worst - but I'm the youngest, so my father had plenty of time to fuck Ethan up as well before I came along."

"And your mother?" Quentin asks, voice soft.

"Oh, she hates all of us," Eliot confides. He doesn't sound particularly bothered by it. "She isn't around much."

Quentin winces. "Well, I get complicated family relationships," he sighs, turning to look over the lake. "I mean, my mother didn't even tell Dad she was royalty until after I was born."

"I read about that," Eliot admits. "When it hit the press that you were coming to Fillory. They said you were raised not knowing anything about this part of your life. Did your dad find out when you did?"

"No, he knew," Quentin says. "But... I was completely blindsided. Dad said they figured they’d tell me when I was older, but… After she died, when I was about ten, he thought the throne would just… go to the next family."

"How did he react when your grandfather showed up?" Eliot wonders.

"He was worried," Quentin admits. "That Granddad might not give me a real choice, or try to really guilt me into becoming a prince." He smiles, then, remembering, "He told Granddad to fuck off, to his face, with Mayakovsky standing behind him, when Granddad tried to bring me along to a Broadway production while I was in a depression hole. I... When it gets that bad, I need quiet, easy activities, to work my way out. Which, y'know. Broadway isn't. So Dad told him to fuck off, and Granddad told me later that was the first time anyone's ever told him that so bluntly."

Eliot snorts. "I cannot imagine telling the King of Fillory to fuck off," he says. He grins at Quentin. "At least, not the current one."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Ha, ha," he says dryly. "Dad's... He's good. Doesn't always understand all the weird shit that goes on in my head - neither do I, honestly - but. He cares, and he tries. And that means a lot."

Eliot huffs a laugh and takes a long drink from the flask. "Can't relate," he says. "My mother is far too busy getting day-drunk to try to understand me, and all my father cares about is Darren and our precious farmlands."

Quentin blinks. "Farmlands?"

Eliot tenses - but then forces himself to relax. "Fuck it," he sighs. "The Waughs are, if you go back far enough, landed gentry. We own a shit-tonne of land and live off the people who farm it. Don't ask me how that means we're next in line for the throne, because I can barely follow it myself."

Quentin chuckles. "Fair enough," he says, leaning back on one hand. "Guess I'll have to go dig through the records at the library to find out for myself. But I don't think there's any shame in being landed gentry, honestly. Every noble had to get their status from _somewhere._ " Quentin gives Eliot a pointed look. "Like Fen's family, for instance."

Eliot winces. "Yeah, okay," he says. "That was a dick thing to say, I'm sorry."

Quentin studies Eliot for a moment before relaxing. “Apology accepted,” he says, turning to look back over the lake. Silence falls between them for several long, easy moments before Quentin finally finds his courage, and takes a deep breath. “Hey,” he says, a quiet prompt to catch Eliot’s attention. "Dare you to tell me a secret you haven't told anyone else."

Eliot takes a breath. The flask is pretty much empty now, and he doesn't bother to reach for it as he considers Quentin, considers his answer. His expression is open, almost tender, and a soft smile finds his lips. "All right," he says. "I'm in love with you."

Quentin sucks in a sharp breath, eyes going wide - something a little desperate, a little hopeful, a little _hurt_ flashes across his expression before it's buried. He makes himself relax, laugh a little - though it sounds as forced as it is, and doesn't fool either of them - and say, "Yeah, okay. Can you take this seriously, please?"

Something behind Eliot's eyes shutters, and he drops his gaze for a moment. "Fine," he says. "I haven't danced with you since your graduation party."

"Eliot - "

"I know that's not a secret," Eliot goes on. "The secret is that I want to dance with you again."

Quentin lets out a quiet breath. He licks his lips, hesitating for a moment, and then blurts, "Truth or dare?"

Eliot blinks, thrown, and then answers tentatively, "Dare?"

Quentin pushes himself to his feet, turns and holds a hand out to Eliot. "I dare you to dance with me."

Eliot hesitates, staring at Quentin's hand. "Q..."

Quentin swallows, ignoring the way his heart trips over itself at the nickname. " _El,_ " he counters. "Come on. You're not going to chicken out on me now, are you? Just one dance, where no one can see. Just you and me."

For a handful of seconds Quentin thinks that Eliot won't do it - but then he sighs, slips his hand into Quentin's, lets him pull him to his feet. "Are you going to step on my foot this time?" he asks, looking down at Quentin with something unreadable in his eyes.

"Maybe just once, for old time's sake," Quentin teases. He knows his tone is far too soft, he knows that this is a bad idea that will only leave him hurting. But - This is a night for them, and for just a little bit, just one dance, Quentin will let himself pretend.

Eliot shifts his hand in Quentin's grasp, his other falling to Quentin's waist, gently pulling him in until their chests are almost touching. His gaze never leaves Quentin's as he guides them into a slow waltz.

They dance for a long time, until the moon starts its descent and the shadows from the trees mean they can’t dance any longer without risking their ankles. They settle into their former spot, closer than before, and pass the last of the drink in Eliot’s flask between them. Quentin doesn’t notice when he slips lower, leans more fully against Eliot, and he definitely doesn’t notice when his eyes slide closed, and he falls asleep, his head on Eliot’s shoulder.

* * *

The first thing Quentin knows the next morning is Eliot's fingers sifting gently through his hair, his voice soft in his ear. "You need to wake up, Q, we slept out here all night."

Quentin makes a quiet noise, pushing himself upright, though one hand stays on Eliot's arm even as he uses the other to knuckle at his eyes. "All night? Fuck," he mutters. He squints out over the lake, searches for the angle of the sun, and lets out a quiet sigh of relief. "It's still early, thank God."

"You should probably get back, though," Eliot says, and he sounds regretful. "People will be looking for you soon."

Quentin sighs again, a slight, wry curve to his lips. “The difficulties of being Crown Prince,” he murmurs.

Eliot smiles. "Maybe we should just run away," he says. "No responsibilities for either of us, no one breathing down our necks, no one telling us who to marry..."

That gets a laugh. "Pull a _Lion King 2_?" Quentin asks, grinning. "Run away and start a pride all our own?"

Eliot grins. "Why not?"

"I don't think there's any countries that'd appreciate a couple of runaway nobles trying to start a new monarchy," Quentin snickers.

"Then let's run away and be nobodies," Eliot says, laughing. "Let's find a cottage somewhere in the middle of the woods and live off the land."

"The pastoral dream," Quentin says, sounding more than a little wistful even as he shakes his head. "Too bad we've got too many responsibilities to just... run away from."

"You have, maybe," Eliot says. He sighs. "But we don't have to go back to reality just yet, do we? Stay for a minute, just let me..."

"No," Quentin says, though he's clearly reluctant as he starts to sit up more fully. "I really should be getting back - "

"Wait." Eliot touches his arm, not stopping him from going but just asking him not to. He sits up too, and turns into him, his nose brushing Quentin's cheek. "Q, I don't want this to be over yet," he murmurs.

Quentin pulls in a shuddering breath, not leaning into Eliot but not leaning away either. "I know, I - " Something moving on the lake catches his attention, and Quentin cuts himself off, gaze shifting. He frowns, brow furrowing. "Who the hell is out on the royal lake this early?"

Eliot doesn't even look. "I don't know," he says. "Quentin--"

But Quentin's expression is shuttering, and he's pulling away, getting to his feet. "He's got a fucking _camera._ And it's pointed this way." His gaze cuts back to Eliot, and it hasn't been this hard and flat since the day he stomped on Eliot's foot. "Did you _plan_ this?"

"What? _No_." Eliot scrambles to his feet, reaching out to Quentin, just as another flash goes off. "Fuck, Q, I swear this isn't me."

"Right, so a guy with a camera just _happens_ to be on a boat on the lake the morning after you come back and send me a note asking me to meet you for a walk," Quentin snaps, stepping neatly out of Eliot’s reach. "I swear to God, I ought to call Mayakovsky and have him toss your whole family out on your asses. I cannot _believe_ you, I can't believe I thought - " He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair as he takes another step back, and glares at Eliot. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Waugh, I need to go do damage control before that man gets the photos out to too many tabloids."

This time, Eliot doesn't try to stop him.

* * *

Quentin makes his way as quickly across the grounds as he can without undue risk, but by the time he makes it back to his rooms, enough time has passed for his grandfather, Lance, Julia, and Mayakovsky to be waiting for him. Julia immediately proves herself as his favorite once again, though, by giving him a cup of coffee, and Quentin wraps his hands around the mug as he sinks onto the couch. "How bad is it?" he sighs.

"Bad," Mayakovsky growls, his expression dour.

"It's already all over the news," Julia adds, wincing. "They're coming for you pretty hard."

"A lot of the buzz is people wondering if you're having second thoughts about the wedding, and if you're having an affair with Lord Eliot," Lance says. He hesitates. "A lot of them are also wondering if you're having another breakdown."

Quentin frowns. "This isn't a breakdown," he says, and can't help the defensive note in his tone. "It's another bad decision, because apparently I can't quit fucking making them around him. But nothing happened, and I'm not having second thoughts."

"Are you sure about that?" Rupert asks. His expression gives nothing away. "Because this doesn't look good, Quentin."

”I know it doesn’t look good,” Quentin snaps. He takes a deep breath, and then another, tries to make himself calm down before he speaks again, because the last thing he needs is an argument with his grandfather. “I know, believe me. But I’m sure. I’m not having second thoughts about this, about marrying Fen, taking the crown - any of it.”

Rupert searches his face for a long moment - and then nods. "Right," he says. "Well then we need to start on damage control immediately, try to get as far ahead of this media storm as we can. Lance, can you draft us a statement to release to the press?" Lance nods, and Rupert turns back to Quentin. "And I suggest you get a message to Fen, because I'm sure you can imagine how this looks to her. If there's going to be a wedding today, we need to make sure the bride turns up."

"I'll go speak to her in person," Quentin decides, pushing himself to his feet. "Right after I change clothes."

"Isn't it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?" Julia asks.

Mayakovsky sneers. "God knows we need no more of that."

"Doesn't she deserve the respect of me talking to her about this face-to-face more?" Quentin argues.

Mayakovsky shrugs. "Don't come crying to me when everything goes to tits."

"It's not like they can get much worse," Quentin points out, getting to his feet. "And if Fen's going to back out, she deserves the chance to tell me to my face."

"That's settled, then," Rupert says. "Lance will sort out what we're going to say to the press; Quentin, you talk to Fen. Mayakovsky, I trust I don't have to ask you to redouble your efforts where the press are concerned?"

"What kind of idiot do you take me for?"

Rupert nods. "Good. I don't want any overzealous journalists trying to get the inside scoop by overstepping the boundaries we've already set for them." He turns to Julia, and finally smiles. "And you, dear. I think asking you to keep my grandson out of trouble is far too tall an order, at this point. Why don't you just focus on making yourself even more beautiful than you already are? Assuming Lady Fen doesn't laugh in Quentin's face, we have a wedding to get ready for."

Julia blushes.

* * *

It doesn’t take Quentin long to get dressed and make his way to Fen’s rooms. He knocks, waits for her to open the door, and then gives her a tired smile when she does. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news. I’d like to explain myself, if you’ll allow me?”

Fen gives him a small smile and steps back from the door to let him in. "I thought it was bad luck to see me before the wedding?"

"A superstition, and I figured it'd be worse if we tried to sort this out over text or something," Quentin says, slipping through the door. "I know this is... big," he settles on, sighing. "I just want you to know that nothing - _untoward_ happened, but I still shouldn't have even been out there in the first place."

Fen sighs. "I know what this is, Quentin," she says. "You and me. We're fond of each other, but we're not... I always thought there would be others, for both of us. And of course I could see the chemistry between you and Lord Eliot. But I did expect you to be more discreet."

Quentin can't help but wince. "I know." He closes his eyes, takes a breath. "But I swear, nothing happened with Lord Eliot last night. We went for a walk, and we talked, and we lost track of time." He catches sight of the television behind Fen, muted, but showing footage of Eliot leaving the garden. The ticker below claims that he was seen leaving the castle altogether, and Quentin's lips twist as he meets Fen's gaze again. "Lord Eliot is not... any sort of complication, or - or potential to be an... _other._ We know what this is, yes, but if you want to back out, no one will hold it against you."

Fen searches his face. "Is it going to happen again?" she asks.

"No," Quentin says, honest. "It won't happen again."

"Then no," Fen says, "I don't want to back out. Not unless you do."

Quentin smiles, partially relieved, but mostly just... happy. "I don't want to, either," he says. "If you're sure..."

Fen smiles back. "I'm sure," she says. "So I think you'd better leave. I have to get ready."

Quentin laughs at that, backing towards the door. "Alright, alright, I'm going. I'll see you in a bit, Fen."

Fen leans up to kiss his cheek. "See you later, Quentin."

* * *

Quentin is almost finished getting ready when there's a knock on his door. There have been people in and out of his rooms all morning, so he doesn't think twice about calling for whoever it is to enter. He doesn't even look up when they do, distracted as he is by trying to fasten his tie - which is why it's such a shock when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Want some help with that tie, Curly Q?"

Quentin's hand slips on the end of said tie, and he nearly punches himself in the face as he whips around, expression lighting up. "Dad?"

"Hey," Ted laughs, opening his arms. "You got a hug for your old man, Your Highness?"

The tie is left to hang, loose and forgotten, around Quentin's neck as he practically barrels into his father's arms, hugging him tightly. "I didn't know if you'd be able to make it," he mumbles, face buried in the crook of Ted's neck. "With your health..."

"Son, it's your wedding day," Ted says, hugging him back just as tight. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Quentin chokes out something that might be a laugh, his grip tightening on his dad's shirt for a moment before he relaxes it. "I'm so glad you're here," he admits, pulling back to give Ted a watery smile. "I wasn't looking forward to standing up there without you in the crowd."

"I'll be as front-and-centre as I can get, sitting behind all the royal whatevers," Ted promises. "I know your mom would want to be here, too."

Quentin laughs again, a little less strangled. "You sure about that? I mean, she ran away specifically to avoid a political marriage."

"I know that," Ted says, "but all she wanted for you was the freedom to make your own decisions about your life. If this is what you really want, and you're happy, that would have been enough for her. And it's enough for me."

"I'm happy," Quentin reassures Ted, smiling. "I would've liked to put this decision off a little longer, but... I'm not upset with it, I don't regret it."

"Good," Ted says. "I'm proud of you, Quentin."

Quentin's smile wobbles. "Thanks, Dad," he says. "That - It means a lot."

"Hey," Ted says, smiling softly. "Don't go getting all weepy on me. Save that for your bride."

Quentin’s smile firms up as he laughs at that. “All right, all right,” he says. “I think Lance might actually kill me if I show up to the wedding with red eyes, anyway, with all of the -” He waves one hand in a vague gesture - “stories going around lately. I need to look as put-together as possible.”

Ted pulls a face. "I don't know if I should be asking about that," he says. "Who the hell is this Eliot guy?"

Quentin sighs. "A pain in my ass," he says, but when he tries to give his dad a grin, there's something missing. "Him and his dad have been... nuisances ever since I came back to Fillory. His dad was the one to bring up the marriage law, and then El - Lord Eliot tried to make me doubt my engagement to Fen. I thought he'd gotten over that, hence meeting him last night for a walk where we lost track of time. Obviously I was wrong."

"You think he set you up?" Ted asks.

Quentin sighs. "I think I can't trust him if he says he didn't," he says honestly, and he knows he sounds hurt. "Given his family and what I know he did before..."

Ted sighs. "Then put him out of your mind," he says. "The wedding's going ahead. He can't ruin it now."

* * *

It's honestly a miracle that Eliot makes it back to the suite he's sharing with the rest of his family without being stopped. He's been hiding out in his favourite parlour ever since Quentin stormed away from him this morning, and he's been careful not to go online this whole time, but he's had a series of increasingly furious texts from Margo and Lady Alice and a number he doesn't have saved that he thinks is Julia Wicker, so he knows it's bad. He doesn't know why he's surprised, therefore, when he lets himself into his rooms to find his father, dressed in a morning suit and looking incredibly smug.

"What?" Eliot asks, before he can think better of it.

"Oh, nothing," Duke Waugh says airily. "It’s just that I'm quite enjoying the chaotic atmosphere of today. Much more chaotic than your usual large wedding."

"It's still happening?" Eliot asks, too quickly.

"Yes," Duke Waugh says, though there's a spark in his eyes, a certain note of relish in his voice. "Though who knows what may happen when they get to the altar and have to face the realities of their vows? Either way, I'll take my satisfaction where I can."

"Right," Eliot says. He needs to sit down. "That's... good. They'll be fine."

"Maybe, maybe not," Duke Waugh chuckles, adjusting his tie one last time. "Maybe something else will happen."

Eliot frowns. "Like what?"

His father shrugs, Eliot catching the smirk on his face through the mirror as he turns to leave. "There's a lot of things that can go wrong at any wedding, Eliot. Royal ones have... _additional_ concerns."

"Wait," Eliot says, his mind spinning. "What have you done? What are you going to do?"

Duke Waugh hums, hand on the doorknob. "Oh, only stirred the pot. I may give it another, depending on how things play out."

Eliot feels sick. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asks.

”It means, Eliot, that one must always be prepared to seize their opportunity - or create one.”

He’s gone before Eliot can say anything else.

* * *

The church being used for the wedding is packed full of politicians and nobility and press, and Quentin stands at the altar, the priest beside him and Mayakovsky just behind his shoulder. It feels claustrophobic, and he can feel his heart racing, not just from the anxiety of being in a wedding, in front of all of these people, but from what Mayakovsky had told him just before the crowd quieted and the opening chords of Fen’s song began.

Eliot hadn’t set up the photographer at the lake this morning - but _his father_ had.

Quentin does his best to push the knowledge to the back of his mind, because it _doesn’t matter,_ because he’s literally about to get married. The niggling sense of wrongness, the itching need to move, to find Eliot and apologize, gets easier to ignore as the music swells and the doors at the back of the church open, revealing Fen. She’s gorgeous in her dress, made of white silk and delicate embroidery, walking with slow, measured steps down the aisle, bouquet in one hand and her other tucked into the crook of her father’s elbow. Quentin doesn’t even have to try to force a smile, finds it nearly splitting his face as she walks up to him. He takes her hand when her father passes it to him, and can’t resist a quiet whisper of, “You look beautiful,” hidden among the music as they turn to the priest.

Fen flushes, but she flashes Quentin a smile, so he counts it as a win as the main part of the ceremony starts. The priest drones on for a while, talking about duties to family, friends, country, God, and spouses, before he finally leads them through their vows. That the vow to be faithful to Fen _doesn’t_ taste like a lie, Quentin also counts as a win.

Then, as he and Fen turn towards the assembled audience and witnesses, the priest opens the floor for the traditional objection, and Quentin tenses as he spots Duke Waugh getting to his feet - but there’s also a commotion going on on the other side of the door at the back of the church. Distracted by that, it takes Quentin a moment to realize that Fen’s hand has slipped from his. And as the doors finally open to reveal a vaguely disheveled, frantic Eliot, Fen’s voice rings out loudest among the shocked gasps and murmurs.

”I object.”

It brings everyone to a halt so effectively, Quentin half wonders if time has somehow frozen. It hasn’t, he discovers, when he turns to look at Fen with wide eyes. “Fen?” he asks, uncertain, curious.

"I'm sorry, Quentin," Fen whispers, and she looks it. She raises her voice. "It's been an honour and a privilege, getting to know you these past few months. I've come to care for you, deeply. But I can't marry you, Prince Quentin. Not when our only reason for doing so is to fulfill an archaic law that prevents you from ruling unless you have a spouse. It's not fair. You're going to make an excellent king. Fillory shouldn't want a miserable ruler, married to someone he's not in love with. You deserve better than that - and so do I."

The murmurs climb in intensity, and distantly, Quentin's aware of the new anchors talking to their cameras - the royal wedding was being broadcast across the country, of course - and Duke Waugh looking smug, and Eliot -

Quentin can't look at Eliot, so instead he looks at Fen, searches her expression intently before he smiles. "You're in love with someone," he guesses.

Fen flushes. "I am," she confesses. "And so are you."

Quentin's smile turns rueful. "It would be a bit useless to deny it," he murmurs. "If this is what you want, Fen, I won't stop you."

"So you'll abandon your pursuit of the crown, then?" Duke Waugh calls. "You'll flaunt another of Fillory's traditions, continue with your blatant disregard for our history and culture?"

Eliot's voice rings out before Quentin can respond. "Prince Quentin has never disregarded a single aspect of Fillory's history or culture. It isn't disrespectful to our past to want to move forward into the future. Lady Fen was right: this law is archaic, designed to suit a time long since passed, and in the current climate it isn't fair to either of them to expect them to marry out of duty alone. The Fillorian people don't want that. The Fillorian king doesn't want that. None of you would have insisted upon this if it wasn't for my father's need to serve his own agenda."

Shocked murmurs buzz around the church, and if Quentin gave a damn about Duke Waugh, he'd be concerned about how quickly his face goes absolutely red. As it is, all he can do is stare at Eliot, wide-eyed, as one of the news anchors in the back calls, "What proof do you have of this accusation, Lord Eliot?"

Eliot winces. "I don't have any proof," he confesses. "But my father brought me to Castle Whitespire following the announcement that Prince Quentin would seek a spouse, and gave me instructions to distract him, seduce him away from Lady Fen in order to put a stop to the engagement. My father would much prefer to see his own son on the throne. I went along with it for a while, but as I got to know him I realised that my friendship with Prince Quentin was more important than anything else, especially my father's agenda. That, and Prince Quentin deserves to be king." He looks at Quentin then, holds his gaze. "He's going to make an incredible king, whether or not he has a spouse at his side, because he is an incredible person." He takes a breath. "I told my father I wanted no part in his schemes, and he agreed to withdraw his interest in the crown. I trusted him. But I should have known better."

Quentin feels a little like he can't breathe, and it's only Fen's hand on his arm that stops him from swaying in place as Mayakovsky speaks, stepping forward to the edge of the dais. "We've had our eye on you, Duke Waugh, for some time now," he says, glaring at the man who is now nearly apoplectic with rage. "And this morning I finally caught your little mole, the one who invaded our prince's privacy. He gave you up without a second's hesitation."

"I've done nothing illegal," Duke Waugh manages to splutter in protest, but his voice dies as King Rupert gets to his feet.

"Perhaps. But you have done enough to prove your loyalty, Duke," he says, the entire church falling silent as their monarch speaks. "And it does not lie with Fillory, nor with her people. It lies only with your own ambition." He glances at Quentin, something vaguely apologetic in his gaze before it steels again as Rupert returns his focus to the duke. "I regret that I did not fight harder against your protestations the first time you voiced them."

Quentin doesn't know what to say, but he's saved from having to say anything when the Prime Minister appears at his elbow. "Perhaps," Henry Fogg murmurs, "it might be prudent, at this point, to make a suggestion to Parliament?"

Quentin blinks, the Prime Minister's words not making sense for a moment, but then they click. He swallows, and nods. Taking a deep breath, Quentin straightens his shoulders and steps forward. "I call Parliament to emergency session, and move to repeal the law requiring an heir be married before they can be crowned," he says, and mentally thanks Lance for all the public speaking lessons when his voice doesn't waver.

Nothing happens for a long moment, and then Lord Palimore rises to his feet, steadying himself on his cane. "I second the motion," he announces. "I spoke in favor of keeping the law almost eight months ago, but I did not know Prince Quentin then, nor the depths of his love for Fillory. To my shame, I did not believe my king when he vouched for his grandson's capabilities. But I have seen them since, and I would be honored to call him King."

Fogg smiles. "All those in favour?"

Quentin holds his breath, but one by one every Member of Parliament adds their voice to support the motion - with the obvious exception of Duke Waugh. He glances at his grandfather; King Rupert gives him a very regal nod.

"Well, the 'ayes' have it," Fogg announces. "The motion carries. Prince Quentin, you are no longer required by law to take a spouse in order to assume the throne."

The news anchors in the back are buzzing like bees, but all Quentin can do at first is look to his grandfather, sitting next to his father and with Julia behind him, to find all three of them smiling at him encouragingly. After a moment, Quentin swallows and says, "Well, then since we've established that neither I nor Fen love _each other_ in a way particularly suited for marriage, I don't believe there will be a wedding today. However, since we have all of the food already made and set up for a reception, we should still make good use of it."

Fen smiles. "I think that's an excellent idea," she says. "Please, everyone, enjoy the rest of the day. And thank you all for being so understanding."

* * *

Understanding most of their guests may be, but that doesn't stop them from wanting to talk to Quentin, to congratulate him and Fen for standing up for their hearts, and for how Quentin handled the reveal of the depth of Duke Waugh's scheming. Quentin indulges them, can't afford not to after everything that's happened, but he also can't stop the way his gaze shifts around the ballroom, seeking Eliot out in the crowd after every interaction. He almost always finds Eliot looking back at him, and every time his heart trips over itself - but then he's drawn into another conversation.

It's not until several hours after the cancelled wedding that Quentin finally finds the time and space to make his way to Eliot's corner of the ballroom. He approaches cautiously, still a little unsure of where, exactly, they stand with each other, and gives Eliot a small smile. "Lord Eliot," he says, mindful of the nearby crowd. "Might I have a word?"

Eliot tenses almost imperceptibly, but Quentin notices. He smiles. "Of course, Your Highness."

Quentin takes a step back, gestures towards one of the doors that leads to the halls. "The usual parlour? I think we'll be forgiven for ducking out this late in the party."

Eliot's surprise shows on his face. "Of course," he says, "if you're sure it can't wait?"

Quentin's smile is more than a little rueful. "I think we're long overdue for an honest talk."

Eliot can't argue with that. "Lead the way."

Quentin catches his grandfather's knowing look and Julia's thumbs-up as he leads them from the party. As soon as they're in the halls, the noise level drops dramatically, but Quentin's heart rate rises in proportion. Neither of them speak until they've found what Quentin can't help but think of as 'their' parlour and the door is closed behind them. Then, Quentin blows out a breath, lets his shoulders relax, and turns to look, _really_ look, at Eliot for the first time that day - maybe ever. He offers Eliot a tentative smile before saying, "I think I owe you an apology, for jumping to conclusions this morning."

"You don't owe me anything," Eliot says, brushing Quentin's apology aside easily. "It was pretty much exactly what it looked like, except that I had nothing to do with it, I swear to you. You were set up, and my father used me to do it. You have every right to be angry."

"Yeah," Quentin concedes, "but I'm angry at your father, not you." His lips quirk into a small, tentative smile. "Especially not after the way you defended me in front of the entire country, today."

Eliot flushes. "I was just being honest," he says. "My father pretty much told me he was going to make a scene at the wedding, and whether you chose to marry Lady Fen or not, you deserve the crown. It was the least I could do."

Quentin's smile softens. "Still," he says, gaze tracking the way that Eliot's flush spreads appealingly across his cheeks. He bites his lip, hesitates for just a moment, and then asks, "Is there a reason why you've been staring so intently at me since then?"

That delightful flush deepens. "Well," Eliot says, "I've been hoping to catch you in a spare moment. Of course, you're incredibly popular, so it's been difficult."

"The perils of royalty," Quentin jokes before settling, still smiling encouragingly at Eliot. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"I've recently found myself in a... tricky situation," Eliot says. "I was hoping to ask your advice."

Quentin's eyes widen for just a moment. "As your friend? Or as your prince?"

"Both," Eliot says. He hesitates, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and takes a breath. "You see, I've fallen in love with the future king. And the last time I spoke to him, I tried to be honest with him - but he didn't believe me. He had every reason not to. What I'm wondering now is, should I try again? Or should I walk away?"

Quentin's breath catches in his chest. "Does he have reason to believe you now?" he asks, searching Eliot's gaze intently.

Eliot doesn't falter. "I hope so," he says, very softly. "But I guess that's up to him."

"Then you should try again," Quentin says, just as softly.

Something like fear flashes in Eliot's eyes, but then he takes a step forward, and then another, until he's right in Quentin's space. He doesn't reach out, but when he lets out his next shaky breath Quentin feels it on his face. "Quentin," he murmurs. "I cannot express how sorry I am for everything that's happened the past few months. I've betrayed you and I've let you down over and over again. But I meant what I said last night." His lips quirk in a tender smile. "I'm in love with you."

It only takes a moment for Quentin's smile to soften, for him to reach out, take Eliot's hand in his. "You've been an ass," he agrees. "And that's something we're going to have to work on, being honest with each other all the time. But somehow, I've fallen in love with you, too."

Eliot's lips part in surprise, and he takes a second to wet them before he speaks again. "Q," he says, "please believe me when I say that I never wanted you to get hurt."

"I believe you," Quentin murmurs, squeezing Eliot's hand lightly. "I - Knowing what your dad is like... I believe you, El."

But Eliot shakes his head. "I should have stood up to him," he says. "I just... I've never been very good at that."

"It sounds like he had you under his thumb," Quentin murmurs, stroking his own over the back of Eliot's hand. "I don't blame you for not standing up to him, El. Not when he held all the power."

"Well, I've done it now," Eliot says, with a harsh laugh. "I'm pretty sure he's steam-rolling through the process of cutting me off as we speak, so if you want to do the same, I won't hold it against you."

"Fuck that," Quentin says without hesitation. "If he's kicking you out, then you're more than welcome here. I... I want more nights like last night, and I want to get to know you better, Eliot. I want the exact opposite of cutting you out of my life, I want you to be _more_ involved."

Eliot looks torn. "I want that, too," he admits. "But you're about to take the throne, and I'm about to become penniless and without a title. Hardly a worthy suitor for the King of Fillory."

"Do you remember where I came from?" Quentin teases. "Granddad literally showed up out of nowhere right before my first semester as a broke college student in New York City."

Eliot smiles despite himself. "I'm just saying," he says. "I'd understand if it was too much trouble."

"Well," Quentin says, affecting an overly-thoughtful expression, "I'm _pretty_ sure we have more than enough room here in the _castle_ for you to live, if you want to live here, and not with Lady Margo or on your own. Nobody will give a shit about your dad disowning you after your display today, so not having a title isn't a problem, either. And I'm really sure that I love you, and want to get to know you even better, so if anyone has a problem with anything about you, they're just going to have to suck it up."

Eliot laughs, though it sounds a little wet. "You're ridiculous," he says. "Thank you, Quentin."

Quentin gives him a tender smile. "I love you," he says. "And if you're willing to work for this - " He squeezes Eliot's hand again - "then I'll meet you halfway. Whatever that looks like."

Eliot nods. "Okay," he agrees. "I love you, too. Although, for the record, that might very well look like me living here. Something tells me Lady Margo is going to be quite distracted for the foreseeable future."

Quentin grins. "Good, Fen deserves all the attention Margo will give her."

Something in Eliot's eyes goes all warm and melty at that. "She's not the only one," he says. His gaze drops briefly to Quentin's mouth, and he squeezes his hand. "Can I ask your advice on another matter, Your Highness?"

Quentin tilts his head, thrown by the subject change. "Of course."

Eliot sways impossibly closer. "Would it be terribly inappropriate," he asks, "if I were to kiss you again?"

Quentin huffs a small laugh. "Considering I am no longer engaged, and have just professed my love for you, I think it would be more inappropriate if you _didn't,_ " he teases.

That's all the invitation Eliot needs. His free hand finds Quentin's cheek, cradles it so tenderly as he angles his face up just right. Their noses brush together as Eliot dips towards him, and he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey," he whispers, and kisses him.

Quentin leans into the kiss with a happy hum, his own free hand lifting to slide over Eliot’s shoulder as he presses closer. It’s soft, lingering, and absolutely _perfect._ When they finally part, Quentin’s grinning. “At least this time we didn’t end up in a fountain,” he murmurs.

Eliot grimaces. "I'm sorry about that, too. Not exactly my best move."

"No," Quentin laughs, "it wasn't. I much prefer this one, asking if you can kiss me."

Eliot grins. "Please, Your Highness," he says. "My prince. Can I kiss you again?"

"Such a theater kid," Quentin sighs, but he's grinning, too. "Of course you can."

Eliot laughs, and does.

* * *

They spend a bit more time in the parlour before they have to leave, to return to society as a whole. Quentin has to return to the party, to mingle with his guests until it's time to kick them all out, and Eliot has to go make sure his family didn't do anything stupid on their way out earlier. They part in the hall outside the parlour with one last kiss, and Quentin gamely bears Julia and Alice's teasing when he returns about sneaking off to go make out with his boyfriend.

Julia also gives Quentin Eliot's number - Quentin doesn't want to know how she got it or what she's used it for before now - and texting him keeps Quentin sane through the last two hours of the party.

The next morning, Quentin has breakfast with Julia and his father, and if it weren't for the servants flitting around the edges of the room, this could almost feel like old times. Back before Rupert showed up and turned Quentin's life upside down, before he learned his mother was actual fucking _royalty._ Julia and Ted tease each other and Quentin with the easy familiarity of family, and Quentin finds himself smiling through the entire meal, until he has to excuse himself to go find Rupert; they have some things to discuss.

He finds his grandfather in his study, alone, and raps his knuckles against the door. "Granddad? Mind if I come in?"

"Of course, Quentin," Rupert calls. He's sitting at his desk when Quentin comes in, and he gives him a warm smile. "How are you? You had quite a day yesterday."

"Still reeling, a little," Quentin admits, coming to sit in one of the chairs near Rupert's desk. "It was... a rollercoaster. How're things on your end? The press seemed pretty okay with getting that dramatic objection and everything else instead of a royal wedding."

Rupert chuckles. "Of course they were," he says. "It's the most dramatic thing to happen in Fillory since your mother left. But it's all fine. Lance is handling everything."

Quentin smiles. "And we even managed to get that law repealed, so there's nothing stopping the coronation in a few months."

"I'm incredibly proud of you," Rupert tells him. "You were every ounce the king I've always known you'd be yesterday. You're definitely ready."

Quentin's smile softens. "Thanks, Granddad," he says. They lapse into silence for a moment, long enough for Quentin to take a deep breath before asking, "So, what're you planning on doing when you don't have to worry about being king anymore?"

"Oh, I don't know," Rupert sighs. "Maybe I'll take up gardening."

"'Gardening'?" Quentin repeats, amused. "Well, if there's a time to pick up new hobbies, I guess it's retirement. Perfect time to do most of the things you never could before."

Rupert smiles. "I suppose I've never been particularly adventurous. I like the quiet life."

Quentin laughs at that. "Then you've been in the wrong business for the past few decades. But if you want a quiet life now, I'm sure Lance will appreciate that."

Fond amusement dances in Rupert's eyes. "And what would you know about that?" he asks.

"Well, _I've_ been nothing but trouble the past several months," Quentin says, cheeky. "I'm sure he'd appreciate a break to focus on other things. With you. Like that relationship you've been putting off for years, maybe?"

Rupert fights very hard not to smile. He fails. "He might have said something about that," he allows.

"Good." Quentin returns Rupert's smile with a soft one of his own. "I think you guys more than deserve your own happily-ever-after."

"Well, we're pursuing it," Rupert assures him. "But enough worrying about me. What about you? You fought hard enough yesterday to win the right to choose your own path. What are you going to do now?"

"Refocus on making sure I have everything down pat for the coronation," Quentin says. "And... maybe make arrangements for Eliot to stay here. He was pretty sure his father was going to go through with disowning him and kicking him out."

"I'm not surprised," Rupert admits. "Duke Waugh has always ruled his family with an iron fist. He's unlikely to tolerate your Lord Eliot's disobedience."

Quentin scowls. "Well, Eliot will be better off without him in his life," he says with certainty. "But since you're still technically king, I wanted to make sure there wasn't anything... prohibiting him from staying here, for however long he needs."

The smile on Rupert's face then is nothing short of a smirk. "Well, like I said, he is _your_ Lord Eliot. He's welcome for as long as you want him here."

Quentin pauses, blinking, and then he flushes - but he's smiling. "Well, good. That he can stay, I mean."

"Do we need to have the same conversation in reverse?" Rupert prompts gently. "About happy endings and romance?"

Quentin chuckles. "No," he assures his grandfather, still smiling. "No, Eliot and I already got ourselves started on that last night."

Rupert's smile softens. "Good," he says. "You deserve to be happy, Quentin. There's no reason now why being king should get in the way of that."

"Trust me, after the past few months, we're not going to let it," Quentin laughs.

Rupert sighs and leans back in his seat. "I quite like Lord Eliot," he offers. "He's got a bit of fire in him, hasn't he?"

"He does," Quentin says, his smile shifting, turning fond. "And a spectacular sense of humor."

"I'm proud of you," Rupert says, and it sounds different than when he said it the first time. "I'm sure you'll make each other very happy."

”We’re certainly going to try.”

* * *

Everyone lies low for a week or so after the not-wedding, which means that most of the people involved stay at the castle. Eliot of course has nowhere to go, but Fen decides she would much rather ride out this media storm with her friends than at home, and Margo wants to stay with her. The two aren't quite as obnoxious about their new relationship as Quentin and Eliot are, but they're not far off. It's sweet, and everyone is happy for them, but they don't want to go public until all of Quentin's drama has blown over. Quentin can't exactly blame them.

They all try to make as much time for each other as they can, but between press releases and interviews and other normal, day-to-day castle drama, they don't manage to all get together very often. Which is why it's such a nice surprise when Lance gives them all the night off and tells them to go get drunk in the gardens. The way he says it makes Quentin think that Lance has some plans of his own - but he's not going to question it.

They have dinner brought to them on the terrace where Quentin and Fen had their first 'date', and when they've finished they all scatter into the grounds with more food, a huge picnic blanket and as many bottles of wine as they can carry. Penny and Kady follow on a little way off from the rest of the group, ostensibly accompanying them for security reasons, although their attention seems to be more on Julia than anyone else. They wander aimlessly for a little while until Eliot takes Quentin's hand, murmuring low in his ear that maybe he knows somewhere they can hang out, and that's how they all end up at the edge of the lake.

Eliot reclines back against the tree they slept under what feels like an age ago, Quentin settled in comfortably between his legs; they sip wine lazily while they watch Fen and Margo feed each other grapes, and Julia and Lady Alice talk a mile a minute about God only knows what. "Are you okay?" Eliot asks softly, tightening the arm he has around Quentin's waist. "You're quiet."

"Just thinking," Quentin hums. One hand falls to circle Eliot's wrist, thumb stroking gently over the skin there. "This is nice. A lot nicer than the last time we were here."

Eliot huffs; Quentin feels it against the back of his neck. "The morning after, maybe," he allows. "The night before I thought was pretty good."

Quentin smiles, his hand shifting until he can thread his fingers with Eliot's. "The night before was pretty good," he concedes. He hesitates, licks his lips, and ventures, "I can't help but wonder what might have happened. If I'd believed you, I mean."

Eliot sighs. "I wanted so badly to kiss you that night," he confesses. "Propriety be damned. If it was going to be my only chance... But I cocked out, as Margo would say."

Quentin chuckles. "She has a way with words, huh?" He's quiet for a moment, and then confesses, "I almost let you, that morning. If I hadn't spotted the guy with a camera, I might have gone in for it myself."

Eliot hums quietly and leans forward until he can hook his chin over Quentin's shoulder. "What about now?"

Quentin smiles, shifting so he can turn his head and capture Eliot's lips in a brief kiss. "Now," he murmurs, pulling back only to kiss Eliot again, "I can kiss you whenever I feel like it."

"Oh my god," Margo groans, but she's grinning when they look over. "Is there any activity we can do that doesn't result in you two sucking face?"

"Unlikely," Eliot says. He kisses Quentin again and then sits back so that he can raise his wine glass to his lips. "But we can try. Who wants to play Truth or Dare?"

"You mean the same game that had you and my fiancé staying out all night?" Fen teases while Julia cackles.

"You sure you want to do that with all of us?" she asks, smirking. "Q obviously hasn't warned you about the dangers of playing with _me._ "

"She's ruthless," Quentin agrees, smiling as he settles back against Eliot.

Eliot sticks his tongue out at her. "Bring it, Wicker."

" _I_ won't go so easy as to only ask you to do handstands," Julia warns, even as they all shift in closer, forming a loose ring around the edge of the blanket. "And passing on a dare means you take a drink, passing on a truth means you finish what's in your hand."

Eliot tilts his glass toward her. "I accept your terms." The others nod their agreement, and he grins at her. "Do your worst."

They don’t manage to tempt Penny and Kady into joining them, which is probably a good thing. It takes exactly two rounds for Julia to bring out the big guns, daring Margo to skinny dip in the lake - Quentin long ago learned it’s better to stick to truths only with Julia, and this is exactly why. Margo, however, just throws her head back and laughs, standing up to shimmy out of her dress while Quentin flushes and splutters, but doesn’t look away, not with Eliot laughing behind him and Fen grinning at him from across the circle before watching her girlfriend dart for the lake with an appreciative gaze. Even in Fillory’s mild climate, the lake in March is freezing, and Margo doesn’t spend longer than necessary in it.

Once she’s back and dressed, the game resumes, this time with no holds barred. They work their way through the rest of the wine until there’s one bottle left, and it’s Alice’s question, aimed at Julia, of “Have you ever had a sex dream about anyone present?” that starts them into more Truth or Truth, and when Julia asks Fen, “Who here, besides Margo, would you fuck if you had to choose?” Fen’s immediate answer of “Alice,” kicks off a round of teasing that settles into gossip and shit-talking, the game forgotten as they finish off the last bottle of wine.

Quentin’s warm all over, from the fading sun and Eliot’s warmth at his back, and his cheeks hurt in that good, achy way of having smiled almost too much in too short a time. The conversation has drifted to shit-talking most of the noble families, and Margo is heartily cursing her own out when Quentin checks back into reality. When she pauses to draw breath, Quentin says, thoughtfully, “Y’know, I bet this will all be good for you and Eliot, and bad for your dads. You two got to stay here, at the palace, while they had to go back to their estates after Duke Waugh was publicly revealed as a scheming bastard.”

”Duke Fuckface got exactly what he deserved,” Julia declares emphatically from her place leaning against Alice. “Asshole needed to be taken down a few pegs, just wish he hadn’t dragged you into it, Q.” She glances at Eliot, expression thoughtful. “Or you, Eliot. I like you, now. You have the official best friend of the future king’s approval.”

Eliot grins. "Thank you," he says. "I love 'Duke Fuckface', did you come up with that?"

"Back at the beginning," Julia tells him cheerfully. "When he stuck that stupid nose of his into Q's business for no good reason."

Eliot winces. "I hate him," he says, suddenly and fiercely.

"Don't hate him too much," Fen says. "Without him getting involved you never would have met Quentin, and I wouldn't have met Margo. Quentin and I probably would have married last week."

"I'd rather not think about it like that," Eliot says, shuddering.

Quentin frowns. "I don't like the thought of owing him," he agrees. "Bastard doesn't deserve that much credit."

"This was all us, baby," Eliot says, kind of maybe specifically to make Margo gag. He kisses the side of Quentin's head. "It was _fate._ "

"Only if whoever's in charge likes overly-dramatic early-2000s rom-coms," Quentin says dryly, smiling as he leans more fully into Eliot.

"I love early-2000s rom-coms," Fen says cheerfully.

Eliot smiles and nuzzles his nose against Quentin's cheek. "Me too."

* * *

Eventually, the media settles down. The not-marriage will be an event for the history books, undoubtedly, but at least it’s no longer front-page news every day. Fen and Margo return to their family’s lands, but Eliot stays at Castle Whitespire; his father did go through with disowning him, even though it only raised the public’s opinion of Eliot and lowered their opinion of him. “It will take Darren a lot of work - if he’s smart about it - to recover from this,” Lance had confided in Quentin with no small amount of satisfaction in his voice a few days after they’d received the news. Eliot doesn’t say much at first, but later, when he and Quentin are alone, curled up in ‘their’ parlour, he confesses that he’s always thought this was coming, one way or another. Now, at least, he can live _his_ life, the way that _he_ wants, and not the life his father wanted.

Quentin continues working with his grandfather and Lance to make sure that everything for the coronation will go as perfectly as it possibly can; most of it is a matter of practice, now, and he gets plenty of that. His archery skills have vastly improved, as have his public speaking skills - as long as Eliot and Julia aren’t trying to distract him from the audience.

In between practicing for the coronation ceremony, taking care of his duties as upcoming king, and helping Julia settle into her new home after her immigration papers are approved, Quentin and Eliot find it difficult to make time to be together by themselves. Dates really aren’t a thing for them; the closest they get is an early night tucked away in either of their suites or in their parlour before separating to go to their own beds to sleep, and Quentin kind of hates that. He knows _why_ , of course, and neither he nor Eliot really mind, but as his coronation approaches, Quentin finds himself looking forward to it simply so that it will be _done._

The day of the ceremony dawns sunny and clear, with the weather forecasted to stay that way. Castle Whitespire is in a well-organized tizzy, servants and assistants scurrying to and fro making sure that everything is ready. Quentin stays in his rooms, out of the way of most of the chaos, and does his part by staying out of trouble with Julia, Eliot, and his grandfather as they wait for the ceremony to start.

When Lance comes to get them, Quentin has a brief attack of nerves that Julia and Eliot talk him out of, and then they leave the castle. The ceremony takes place in the front garden, and it’s all a bit of a blur, honestly. Quentin knows he doesn’t hit anyone with the flaming arrow, and he also doesn’t hit any shrubbery - there’s no screaming, so he assumes that much, at least - and as he turns to the Cardinal, reciting the words that bind him to Fillory for life, everything comes into stark clarity. He’s here - he’s made it. And more than that, he made it with his friends, with his family, and with a man that he loves, that he very well might spend the rest of his life with.

He’s already got his happily-ever-after; getting a crown is just a bonus.

Afterwards, there’s another ball, because Fillorians will take _any_ excuse to have a ball and run away with it, and Quentin does his duty as the new King, making the rounds, saying hello to those nobles he meets and dancing with those he must. Duke Waugh does not, much as Quentin might like to, get snubbed; he gets the same polite greeting that Quentin gives all of the members of Parliament - though Quentin does not linger in conversation with him, either, and he’s pleased to see that Duke Waugh spends most of the time alone against one wall, most of the court giving him a wide-enough-to-be-noticed berth.

Once he’s made his rounds, Quentin makes a brief stop for a drink before sweeping Alice off for a dance; halfway through, her gaze flicks over his shoulder and she gives him a smirk right before -

”Mind if I cut in?”

Alice is already stepping back as Quentin laughs; he bows to her as she curtsies, and then another young noble sweeps her away as Quentin turns to Eliot. “I think I’ve got déjà vu,” he teases, settling into place with ease, one hand in Eliot’s and the other on his waist.

"Are you going to step on my foot this time?" Eliot teases, smiling warmly down at him.

"If I do," Quentin laughs, "it will be a genuine accident. Probably because I'll be so distracted by your stupid smile."

"Sap," Eliot chuckles. He turns them gracefully, guiding Quentin effortlessly around the other dancers. "You look beautiful today, if I might be so bold. Every inch the perfect king. I'm very proud of you."

"I'd be rather put out if you _weren't_ that bold," Quentin hums, smiling. "But thank you. I'm glad to know you, at least, think I haven't screwed this up yet."

"You're not going to screw it up," Eliot tells him, firm and sure. "You're ready for this. Your Majesty."

"That's going to take some getting used to," Quentin laughs as they glide through another turn. Something catches his eye, and he nods towards one side of the ballroom. "But I think I can do it, if that's part of the payoff."

Eliot follows his gaze to where former King Rupert is dancing with Lance, sharing smiles that are secret and soft. "They've waited a long time for this moment," he realises. When he turns back to Quentin, it's with an expression that's unbelievably tender. "I'm happy for them - but I'm glad it won't be like that for us."

Quentin bites his lip for a moment before he lets his own smile mirror Eliot's. "Me, too," he says, quiet, for just the two of them. "Some of it really sucked, getting here, but... I'm glad we did get here, in the end."

Eliot's eyes crinkle gently at the corners, and he turns them again. "I suppose I'll have to let you go soon," he sighs. "Many loyal subjects are here, waiting to speak to their king. I can't steal you away from them for too long."

"Not for right now," Quentin agrees, reluctant. "But later..."

Eliot laughs. "Later," he promises, "I'll show you exactly how proud I am of you. My king."

"That sounds perfect," Quentin sighs, still smiling. "Could I have a kiss to tide me over, my love?"

Eliot gazes down at him, his eyes full of love and fondness and a bright flicker of amusement. He doesn't answer, just dips down to capture Quentin's lips in a sweet kiss.


End file.
